LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  Of 

CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR; 


Cjje  CjirMmas  (Butst. 


AT 


DONALDSON   MANOR; 

OR 

€{p  CJjristtms  (fal 

BY 

MAEIA  J.  McINTOSH, 

AUTHOR  OP 

"WOMAN  IN  AMERICA,"  "TWO  LIVES,"  CHARMS  AND  COUNTER  CHARMS," 
ETC.,  ETC..  ETC. 


Oh  Winter !  ruler  of  the  inverted  year, 
I  crown  thee  king  of  intimate  delights, 
Fireside  enjoyments,  homeborn  happiness. 

COWPER. 


ILLUSTRATED   WITH   TEN   STEEL   ENGRAVINGS. 


NEW- YORK: 
D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY,  200  BROADWAY. 

PHILADELPHIA : 
GEO.  S.  APPLETON,  164  CHESNTJT-STREET. 

M.DCCC.LI. 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1850,  by 

D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of  New- York. 


list  nf 


DONALDSON  MANOR,  ....  FRONTISPIECE. 

THE   MOTHER,         .......  34 

A  WESTERN  LAKE  BY  SUNSET,  .  .  .  .50 

THE   FREED   BIRD,  ......  73 

THE  HEIR  OF   THE  MANOR,  .....      95 

THE  FISHERMAN'S  FAMILY,     .....          138 

A  FOREST   SCENE,      .......    147 

THE   EXILED   HEBREWS,  .....          177 

HOTSPUR  AND  KATHERINE,  .....    237 

THE   GREEK   GIRL,  276 


PREFACE 


To  the  generous  friends  who  so  kindly  entertained  "  Aunt 
Kitty,"  I  venture  now  to  present  in  "  Aunt  Nancy  "  another  of 
the  single  sisterhood,  who  will  be  found,  I  trust,  not  less  deserv 
ing  their  indulgence.  Like  "  Aunt  Kitty,"  she  has  sought  to 
render  amusement  subservient  to  instruction,  and  she  hopes  that 
those  who  receive  her  as  a  Christmas  Guest  will  find  in  her 
something  more  than  an  entertaining  companion. 

From  the  examples  she  will  present  to  them,  they  may  learn 
that  to  the  brave  and  true  and  faithful  heart,  "  all  things  are 
possible" — that  he  who  clings  to  the  good  and  the  holy  amidst 
temptation  and  trial,  will  find  peace  and  light  within  him,  though 
all  without  be  storm  and  darkness ;  and  that  in  a  right  under 
standing  and  unfaltering  performance  of  duty — not  in  the  pomps 


g  PREFACE. 

and  pleasures  of  a  self-indulgent  life — lie  our  true  glory  and 
happiness. 

It  may  be  proper  to  state  that  some  of  the  tales  related  by 
"  Aunt  Nancy"  are  here  re-printed  with  slight  alterations,  from 
the  papers  and  magazines  in  which  they  first  appeared  several 
years  ago.  To  the  editors  of  such  papers  and  magazines  I  would 
here  tender  my  thanks,  for  the  courtesy  with  which  they  sup 
plied  me  with  copies. 

M.  J.  Me. 

NEW-YORK,  September  14th,  1850. 


OR 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE  largest  and  the  most  picturesque  country  house  of  all  I  know 
in  America  is  the  mansion  house  of  my  friends,  the  Donaldsons. 
I  would  gladly  inform  the  reader  of  its  locality,  but  this  Col. 
Donaldson  has  positively  prohibited,  for  a  reason  too  flattering  to 
my  self-love  to  be  resisted. 

"You  know,  my  dear  Madam," — I  give  his  own  words,  by 
which  I  hope  the  courteous  reader  will  understand  that  I  am 
really  too  modest  even  to  seem  to  adopt  the  flattering  sentiment 
they  convey — "  You  know,  my  dear  Madam,  that  your  description 
will  be  read  by  every  body  who  is  any  body,  and  that  through  it 
my  simple  home  will  become  classic  ground.  If  I  permit  you 
to  direct  the  tourist  tribe  to  it,  I  shall  be  pestered  out  of  my 
life  when  summer  comes,  by  travelling  artists,  would-be  poets, 
and  romantic  young  ladies." 

I  may  not  therefore,  dear  reader,  tell  you  whether  this  pleasant 
abode  be  washed  by  the  waves  of  the  Atlantic  or  by  the  turbid 


10  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

current  of  the  Mississippi ;  whether  it  be  fanned  by  the  flower- 
laden  zephyrs  of  the  South,  or  by  the  health-inspiring  breezes  of 
the  North.  The  exterior  must  indeed  have  been  left  wholly  to 
your  imagination,  had  I  not  fortunately  obtained  a  sketch  from 
a  young  friend,  an  amateur  artist,  of  whom  I  shall  have  more  to 
say  presently.  As  I  could  not  in  honor  present  you  with  even 
this  poor  substitute,  as  I  trust  you  will  consider  it,  for  my  word- 
painting,  without  Col.  Donaldson's  consent,  I  have  been  compelled 
in  deference  to  his  wish,  to  divest  the  picture  of  every  thing 
that  would  mark  the  geographical  position  of  the  place  represent 
ed.  The  shape  of  its  noble  old  trees  we  have  been  permitted  to 
retain ;  but  their  foliage  we  have  been  obliged  to  render  so 
indistinctly,  that  even  Linnaeus  himself  would  find  it  impossible 
to  decide  whether  it  belonged  to  the  elm  of  the  North  when 
clothed  in  all  its  summer  luxuriance,  or  to  the  gigantic  live-oak 
of  the  South,  Even  of  the  house  itself  we  have  been  permitted 
to  give  but  a  rear  view,  lest  the  more  marked  features  of  the 
landscape  in  front  should  hint  of  its  whereabouts.  As  to  the 
figures  which  appear  in  the  foreground  of  the  picture,  they  are 
but  figments  of  my  young  artist  friend's  imagination.  One  of 
them  you  may  observe  carries  under  the  arm  a  sheaf  of  wheat, 
not  a  stalk  of  which  I  assure  you  ever  grew  on  the  Donaldson 
lands. 

Even  from  this  imperfect  picture  of  the  exterior,  you  will 
perceive  that  the  house  is,  as  I  have  said,  both  large  and  pictu 
resque.  "Within,  the  rooms  go  rambling  about  in  such  a  strange 
fashion,  that  an  unaccustomed  guest  attempting  to  make  his  way 
without  a  guide  to  the  chambre  de  nuit  in  which  he  had  slept  but 
the  last  night,  would  be  very  apt  to  find  himself  in  the  condition 
of  a  certain  bird  celebrated  in  nursery  rhymes  as  wandering, 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  H 

Up  stairs  and  down  stairs 
And  in  the  ladies'  chambers. 

In  this  house  have  the  Donaldsons  lived  and  died  for  nearly 
two  hundred  years,  and  during  all  that  time  they  have  never 
failed  to  observe  the  Christmas  with  right  genuine,  old  English 
hospitality.  Then,  their  sons  and  their  daughters,  their  men- 
servants  and  their  maid-servants,  and  the  stranger  within  their 
gates,  felt  the  genial  influence  of  their  gratitude  to  Him  who  added 
year  after  year  almost  unbroken  temporal  prosperity  to  the 
priceless  gift  commemorated  by  that  festival.  At  many  of  these 
festivals  it  has  been  my  good  fortune  to  be  present.  Indeed, 
though  only  "  AUNT  Nancy,"  by  that  courtesy  which  so  often 
accords  to  the  single  sisterhood  some  endearing  title,  as  a  conso 
lation,  I  presume,  for  the  more  honorable  one  of  MRS.  which 
their  good  or  evil  fortune  has  denied  them,  I  have  been  ever 
received  at  Donaldson  manor  as  at  my  own  familiar  home ;  nor 
was  it  matter  of  surprise  to  myself  or  to  our  mutual  friends,  when 
the  Col.  and  Mrs.  Donaldson  named  their  fourth  daughter  after 
me,  modifying  the  old-fashioned  Nancy,  however,  into  its  more 
agreeable  synonyme  of  Annie. 

This  daughter  has  been,  of  course,  my  peculiar  pet.  In  truth, 
however,  she  has  been  scarcely  less  the  peculiar  pet  of  father 
and  mother,  brothers  and  sisters,  friends  and  neighbors — sweet 
Annie  Donaldson,  as  all  unite  in  calling  her,  and  certainly  a 
sweeter,  fresher  bud  of  beauty  never  opened  to  the  light  than  my 
name-child.  And  yet,  reader,  it  may  be  that  could  I  stamp  her 
portrait  on  my  page,  you  would  exclaim  at  my  taste,  and  declare 
there  was  no  beauty  in  it.  I  will  even  acknowledge  that  you 
may  be  right,  and  that  there  is  nothing  artistically  beautiful  in 
the  dark-gray  eyes,  the  clear  and  healthy  yet  not  dazzlingly  fair 


12  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

complexion,  the  straight  though  glossy  dark-brown  hair,  and  the 
form,  rounded  and  buoyant,  but  neither  tall  enough  to  be  digni 
fied  nor  petite  enough  to  be  fairy-like.  But  sure  I  am  that  you 
could  not  know  the  spirit,  gentle  and  playful  yet  lofty  and 
earnest,  which  looks  out  from  her  eyes  and  speaks  in  her  clear, 
silvery  tones  and  graceful  gestures,  without  feeling  that  Annie 
Donaldson  is  beautiful.  Nor  am  I  alone  in  this  opinion.  My 
friend  Mr.  Arlington  fully  agrees  with  me,  as  you  would  be 
convinced  if  you  could  see  the  admiring  expression  with  which 
he  gazes  on  her.  As  this  gentlemen  cannot  plead  the  Colonel's 
reason  for  any  reserve  respecting  his  place  of  residence,  I  shall 
not  hesitate  to  inform  the  reader  that  he  is  a  young  lawyer  of 
New  York,  who  has  preserved,  amidst  much  study  and  some 
business,  the  natural  taste  necessary  to  the  enjoyment  of  country 
scenes  and  country  sports.  During  those  weeks  of  summer  when 
New  York  is  deserted,  alike  by  the  wearied  man  of  business  and 
the  ennuye  idler,  Mr.  Arlington,  instead  of  rushing  with  the  last 
to  the  overcrowded  hotels  of  Saratoga  and  Newport,  takes  his 
gun  and  dog,  his  pencil  and  sketch-book,  and  with  an  agreeable 
companion,  or,  if  this  may  not  be,  some  choice  books,  as  a  resource 
against  a  rainy  day,  he  goes  to  some  wild  spot — the  wilder  the 
better — where  he  roves  at  will  from  point  to  point  of  interest  and 
beauty,  and  spends  his  time  in  reading,  sketching,  and — alas  for  hu 
man  imperfection ! — shooting.  These  vagrant  habits  first  brought 
him  into  the  neighborhood  of  Donaldson  Manor,  and  he  had  for 
two  successive  summers  hunted  with  the  Colonel  and  sketched 
with  the  young  ladies,  when  he  was  invited  to  join  their  Christmas 
party  in  18 — .  Here  I  was  introduced  to  him,  and  in  a  few  days 
we  were  the  best  friends  in  the  world. 

Mr.  Arlington's  sketch-book,  of  which  I  have  already  spoken, 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  13 

served  to  elicit  one  of  our  points  of  sympathy.  Bound  down  by 
the  iron  chain  of  necessity  to  that  point  of  space  occupied  by  my 
own  land,  and  that  point  of  time  filled  by  my  own  life,  yet  with 
a  heart  longing  for  acquaintance  with  the  beautiful  distant  and 
the  noble  past,  I  have  ever  loved  the  creations  of  that  art  which 
furnished  food  to  these  longings ;  and  as  my  fortune  has  denied 
me  the  possession  of  fine  paintings,  I  have  become  somewhat 
noted  in  my  own  little  circle  for  my  collection  of  fine  engravings. 
Many  of  these  have  peculiar  charms  for  me,  from  their  associa 
tion,  fancied  or  real,  with  some  place  or  person  that  does  interest 
or  has  interested  me.  In  the  leisure  of  a  solitary  life,  it  has 
amused  me  to  append  to  these  engravings  a  description  of  the 
scenes  or  a  narrative  of  the  incidents  which  they  suggested  to  my 
mind,  and  for  their  association  with  which  I  particularly  valued 
them.  Annie  was  well  aware  of  the  existence  of  these  descrip 
tions  and  narratives,  and,  with  a  pretty  despotism  which  she  often 
exercises  over  those  she  loves,  she  insisted  that  I  should  surren 
der  them  to  her  for  the  gratification  of  the  assembled  party.  One 
condition  only  was  I  permitted  to  make  in  this  surrender,  and 
this  was,  that  Mr.  Arlington  should  also  bring  forth  his  port 
folio  for  inspection,  and  should  describe  the  locale  of  the  scenes 
sketched,  or  relate  the  circumstances  under  which  the  sketches 
were  made.  A  pretty  ruse  this,  my  gentle  Annie,  by  which  you 
furnished  the  artist  with  an  opportunity  to  display  to  others  the 
talents  which  had  charmed  yourself.  In  accordance  with  this 
compact,  the  scenes  here  preserved  and  the  narratives  accompa 
nying  them  were  produced,  and  received  with  such  approbation, 
that  by  the  same  sweet  tyranny  which  drew  them  from  their 
hiding-places,  we  have  been  ordered  to  send  this  Christmas  Guest 
to  bear  them  to  other  homes,  with  the  hope  that  they  may  give 
equal  pleasure  to  their  inmates. 


CHAPTER  II. 

MERRILY  blazed  the  wood  fire  in  the  huge  old  chimney  of  the 
large  parlor  in  which  we  were  accustomed  to  assemble  in  the 
evening,  at  Donaldson  Manor,  and  its  light  was  thrown  upon 
faces  bright  with  good-humored  merriment,  yet  not  without  some 
touch  of  deeper  and  more  earnest  feeling.  That  party  would  of 
itself  have  made  an  interesting  picture.  There  was  Gol.  Don 
aldson,  tall,  gaunt,  his  figure  slightly  bent  yet  evincing  no  feeble 
ness,  his  curling  snow-white  locks,  his  broad  bald  forehead,  and 
shaggy  brows  overhanging  eyes  beaming  with  kindness.  Beside 
him  sat  Mrs.  Donaldson,  still  beautiful  in  her  green  old  age.  Her 
face  was  usually  pale,  yet  her  clear  complexion,  and  the  bright 
eyes  that  looked  out  from  beneath  the  rich  Valenciennes  border 
of  her  cap,  redeemed  it  from  the  appearance  of  ill  health.  Her 
form,  stately  yet  inclining  to  embonpoint,  was  shown  to  advan 
tage  by  the  soft  folds  of  the  rich  and  glossy  satin  dress  which 
ordinarily,  at  mid-day,  took  the  place  in  summer  of  her  cambric 
morning-dress,  and  in  winter  of  her  cashmere  robe  de  chambre. 
Mrs.  Donaldson  has  a  piece  of  fancy  netting  which  she  reserves 
for  her  evening  work,  because,  she  says,  it  does  not  make  much 
demand  upon  her  eyes.  This  the  mischievous  and  privileged 
Annie  calls  "  Penelope's  Web,"  declaring,  that  whatever  is  done 
on  it  in  the  evening  is  undone  the  next  morning.  Around  the 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  15 

table,  on  which  the  brightest  lights  were  placed  for  the  conve 
nience  of  those  who  would  read  or  sew,  clustered  the  two  married 
daughters  of  the  house — who  always  return  to  their  " home"  as 
they  still  continue  to  call  Donaldson  Manor,  for  the  Christmas 
holidays — Annie,  Mr.  Arlington,  and  myself.  Miss  Donaldson, 
the  eldest  daughter  of  my  worthy  friends,  is  the  housekeeper  of 
the  family,  and  usually  sits  quietly  beside  her  mother,  somewhat 
fatigued  probably  by  the  active  employments  of  her  day.  The 
two  sons  of  Col.  Donaldson,  the  elder  of  whom  is  only  twenty- 
three,  his  sons-in-law,  and  his  grandson,  Eobert  Dudley,  a  fine 
lad  of  twelve,  give  animation  to  the  scene  by  moving  hither  and 
thither,  now  joining  our  group  at  the  table,  now  discussing  in  a 
corner  the  amusements  of  to-morrow,  and  now  entertaining  us 
with  a  graphic  account  of  to-day's  adventures,  of  the  sleighs  upset, 
or  -the  skating-matches  won. 

Such  was  the  party  assembled  little  more  than  a  week  before 
Christmas  the  last  year,  when  Annie  called  upon  Mr.  Arlington 
and  myself  to  redeem  the  pledges  we  had  given,  and  surrender 
our  port-folios  to  her.  Some  slight  contention  arose  between  us 
on  the  question  who  should  first  contribute  to  the  entertainment 
of  the  company,  Mr.  Arlington  exclaiming  "Place  aux  Dames," 
and  I  contending  that  there  was  great  want  of  chivalry  in  thus 
putting  a  woman  into  the  front  of  the  battle.  This  little  dis 
pute  was  terminated  by  the  proposal  that  Annie  having  been 
blindfolded  to  secure  impartial  justice,  the  two  port-folios  should 
be  placed  on  the  table,  and  she  should  choose,  not  only  from 
which  of  them  our  entertainment  should  be  drawn,  but  the  very 
subject  that  should  furnish  it.  Mr.  Arlington  vehemently  ap 
plauded  this  proposal,  and  then  urged  that  he  must  himself  tie 
the  handkerchief,  as  no  one  else,  he  feared,  would  make  it  an 


IQ  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

effectual  blind.  Annie  submitted  to  his  demand,  though  she  pro 
fessed  to  feel  great  indignation  at  his  implied  doubt  of  her  hon 
esty.  No  one  else,  we  believe,  would  have  taken  so  much  time 
for  the  disposal  of  this  screen,  or  been  so  careful  in  the  arrange 
ment  of  the  bands  of  hair  over  which,  or  through  which,  the  hand 
kerchief  was  passed ;  and  the  touch  of  no  other  hand,  perhaps, 
would  have  called  up  so  bright  a  color  to  the  cheeks,  and  even  to 
the  brow,  of  our  sweet  Annie.  When  permitted  to  exercise  her 
office,  Annie,  to  my  great  pleasure,  without  an  instant's  hesita 
tion,  while  a  mischievous  little  smile  played  at  the  corners  of  her 
mouth,  placed  her  hand  on  Mr.  Arlington's  port-folio,  and  drew 
from  it  a  paper,  which,  on  being  exhibited,  was  found  to  contain 
the  pencilled  outline  of  many  heads  grouped  together  in  various 
positions,  some  being  apparently  elevated  considerably  above  the 
others. 

"  Ah,  Miss  Annie  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Arlington,  with  consider 
able  satisfaction  apparent  in  his  voice  and  manner,  "  you  must 
try  again,  and  I  think  I  must  trouble  you,  ladies,  for  another 
handkerchief.  This  seems  to  me  to  have  been  scarcely  thick 
enough." 

"  I  appeal  to  the  company,"  cried  Annie,  "  whether  this  is  in 
accordance  with  Mr.  Arlington's  engagement.  "Was  he  not  to 
accept  any  thing  I  should  draw  from  his  port-folio  as  the  founda 
tion  of  his  sketch  ?" 

"  Aye,  aye,"  was  responded  from  every  part  of  the  room. 

"  But  pray,  my  good  friends,"  persisted  Mr.  Arlington,  "  ob 
serve  the  impossibility  of  compliance  with  your  demand.  How 
can  I  possibly  hope  to  entertain  you  by  any  thing  based  upon 
that  memento  of  an  idle  hour  in  court,  which  I  should  long  ago 
have  destroyed,  had  I  not  fancied  that  I  could  detect  in  those 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  17 

sketchy  outlines — those  mere  profiles — very  accurate  likenesses  of 
the  heads  for  which  they  were  taken  ?" 

"  Those  heads  look  as  if  they  might  have  histories  attached 
to  them,"  said  Annie,  as  she  bent  to  examine  them  more  nar 
rowly. 

"  Histories  indeed  they  have,"  said  Mr.  Arlington. 

"  Give  them  to  us,"  suggested  Col.  Donaldson. 

"  You  have  them  already.  These  are  all  men  whose  histo 
ries  are  as  well  known  to  the  public  as  to  their  own  families. 
There  is  the  elder  K—  — ,  at  once  so  simple  in  heart,  and  so 
acute  in  mind.  Cannot  you  read  both  in  his  face  ?  There  is  his 

son  ;  and  there  is  D.  B.  O —  — ,  and  O.  H —  — ,  and  Gr , 

and  J—  — .  What  can  I  tell  you  of  any  of  them  that  you  do 
not  know  already  ?" 

"  Who  are  these  ?"  asked  Annie,  pointing  to  two  heads, 
placed  somewhat  aloof  from  the  rest,  and  near  each  other. 
"  That  older  face  is  so  benevolent  in  its  expression,  and  the 
younger  has  so  noble  a  physiognomy,  and  looks  with  such  reve 
rence  on  his  companion,  that  I  am  persuaded  they  have  a  history 
beyond  that  which  belongs  to  the  world.  Is  it  not  so  ?" 

"It  is.  Those  are  Mr.  Cavendish  and  Herbert  Latimer. 
They  have  a  history,  and  I  will  give  it  you  if  you  desire  it, 
though,  thus  impromptu,  I  must  do  it  very  imperfectly  I  fear." 

"  No  apologies,"  said  Col.  Donaldson.  "  Begin,  and  do  your 
best ;  no  one  can  do  more." 

"  Than  my  best,"  said  Mr.  Arlington,  with  a  smile,  "  thank 
you.  My  narrative  will  have  at  least  one  recommendation — 
truth — as  I  have  received  its  incidents  from  Latimer  himself." 

Without  farther  preliminary,  Mr.  Arlington  commenced  the 
relation  of  the  following  circumstances,  which  he  has  since  written 
2 


18  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

out,  by  Annie's  request,  at  somewhat  greater  length  for  insertion 
here,  giving  it  the  title  of 


HERBEET  LATIMER  was  only  twenty  when,  having  passed  the 
usual  examination,  he  was  admitted,  by  a  special  act  of  the 
legislative  assembly  of  his  native  State,  to  practise  at  her  bar. 
Young  as  he  was,  he  had  already  experienced  some  of  the 
severest  vicissitudes  of  life.  His  father  had  been  a  bold,  and  for 
many  years  a  successful  merchant,  and  the  young  Herbert,  his 
only  child,  had  been  born  and  nurtured  in  the  lap  of  wealth 
and  luxury.  He  was  but  sixteen — a  boy — but  a  boy  full  of  the 
noble  aspirations  and  lofty  hopes  that  make  manhood  honorable, 
when  his  father  died.  Mr.  Latimer's  last  illness  had  been  pro 
bably  rendered  fatal  by  the  intense  anxiety  of  mind  he  endured 
while  awaiting  intelligence  of  the  result  of  a  mercantile  opera 
tion,  on  which,  contrary  to  the  cautious  habits  of  his  earlier 
years,  he  had  risked  well  nigh  all  he  possessed.  He  did  not  live 
to  learn  that  it  had  completely  failed,  and  that  his  wife  and  child 
were  left  with  what  would  have  seemed  to  him  the  merest  pit 
tance  for  their  support. 

The  character  and  talents  of  young  Latimer  were  well  known 
to  his  father's  friends,  and  more  than  one  among  them  offered 
him  a  clerkship  on  what  could  not  but  be  considered  as  very 
advantageous  terms.  To  these  offers  Herbert  listened  with  pain 
ful  indecision.  For  himself,  he  would  have  suffered  cheerfully 
any  privation,  rather  than  relinquish  the  career  which  his  in 
clinations  had  prompted,  and  with  which  were  connected  all  his 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  19 

glowing  visions  of  the  future — but  his  mother — had  he  a  right  to 
refuse  what  would  enable  her  to  preserve  all  her  accustomed 
elegancies  and  indulgences  ? 

"  You  must  be  aware,  Master  Latimer,"  said  he  who  had 
made  him  the  most  liberal  offers,  and  who  saw  him  hesitating  on 
their  acceptance,  "  you  must  be  aware  that  only  my  friendship 
for  your  father  could  induce  me  to  offer  such  terms  to  so  young 
a  man,  however  capable.  Three  hundred  dollars  this  year,  five 
hundred  the  next,  if  you  give  satisfaction  in  the  performance  of 
your  duties,  a  thousand  dollars  after  that  till  you  are  of  age,  and 
then  a  share  in  business  equal  to  one-fourth  of  its  profits — these 
are  terms,  sir,  which  I  would  offer  to  no  one  else.  Your  father 
was  a  friend  to  me,  sir,  and  I  would  be  a  friend  to  his  son." 

"  I  feel  your  kindness  and  liberality,  sir." 

"  And  yet  you  hesitate." 

"  Will  you  permit  me,  sir,  to  ask  till  to-morrow  for  considera 
tion  ?  I  must  consult  my  mother." 

"  That  is  right,  young  man ;  that  is  right.  She  knows  some 
thing  of  life,  and  will,  I  doubt  not,  advise  you  to  close  with  so 
unexceptionable  an  offer." 

"  Whatever  she  may  advise,  sir,  be  assured  I  will  do." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  then,  sir,  that  I  shall  see  you  to-morrow 
prepared  to  take  your  place  in  my  store.  Good  morning." 

Assuming  as  cheerful  an  air  as  he  could,  Herbert  went  from 
this  interview  to  his  mother's  sitting-room.  Mrs.  Latimer  raised 
her  eyes  to  his  as  he  entered,  and  reading  with  a  mother's  quick 
perception  the  disturbance  of  his  mind,  she  asked  in  a  tone  of 
alarm — "  What  is  the  matter,  Herbert  ?" 

"  Only  a  very  pleasant  matter,  mother,"  said  Herbert  with 
forced  cheerfulness,  which  he  endeavored  to  preserve  while  re 
lating  the  offer  he  had  just  received, 


20  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

"  And  would  you  relinquish  the  study  of  the  law,  Herbert  ?" 
inquired  Mrs.  Latimer. 

"  Not  if  I  could  help  it,  mother ;  but  you  know  Mr.  Wood- 
leigh  told  you  that  five  hundred  a  year  was  the  utmost  that  he 
could  hope  to  save  for  you.  If  I  study  law  it  must  be  several 
years  before  I  can  add  any  thing  to  this  sum — I  may  even  be 

compelled "  The  features  of  Herbert  worked,  tears  rushed 

to  his  eyes,  and  he  turned  away,  unable  to  speak  the  thought 
that  distressed  him. 

"  You  speak  of  what  can  be  saved  for  me,  Herbert — of  what 
you  may  be  compelled  to  do.  Do  you  suppose  that  we  can 
have  separate  interests  in  this  question  ? — are  not  your  hopes  my 
hopes — will  not  your  success,  your  triumph,  be  mine  too  ?  The 
only  consideration  for  us,  it  seems  to  me,  is  whether  the  profes 
sion  you  have  chosen  and  the  prospects  open  to  you  in  it,  are 
worth  some  present  sacrifice." 

"  They  are  worth  every  sacrifice  on  my  part — but  you, 
mother " 

"  Have  no  separate  interest  from  my  child — I  have  shared 
all  your  hopes,  all  your  aspirations,  Herbert,  and  it  would  cost 
me  less  to  live  on  bread  and  water,  to  dress  coarsely,  and  lodge 
hardly  for  the  next  five  years,  than  to  yield  my  anticipations 
of  your  future  success." 

Others  had  felt  for  Herbert,  and  had  offered  to  aid  him,  and 
he  had  turned  from  them  with  a  deeper  sense  of  his  need  and 
diminished  confidence  in  his  own  powers — his  mother  felt  with 
him,  and  he  was  cheered  and  strengthened.  The  offers  of  the 
friendly  merchant  were  gratefully  declined.  By  the  sale  of  her 
jewels,  Mrs.  Latimer  obtained  the  sum  necessary  to  meet  the 
expenses  incident  to  her  son's  first  entrance  on  his  professional 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  21 

studies.  She  then  appropriated  three  hundred  dollars  of  their 
little  income  to  his  support  in  the  city,  and  withdrew  herself  to 
the  country,  where,  she  said,  the  remaining  two  hundred  would 
supply  all  her  wants.  "When  Herbert  would  have  remonstrated 
against  these  arrangements,  she  reminded  him  that  they  were 
intended  to  accomplish  her  own  wishes  no  less  than  his.  He 
ceased  to  remonstrate,  but  he  did  what  was  better — he  acted — 
and  the  very  first  year,  by  self-denying  economy  and  industry, 
he  was  enabled  to  return  to  her  fifty  dollars  of  the  amount  she 
had  allotted  to  him.  The  second  year  he  did  better,  and  the 
third  year  Mrs.  Latimer  was  able  to  return  to  the  city  and  board 
at  the  same  house  with  her  son.  It  was  only  by  the  joy  she 
expressed  at  their  reunion  that  Herbert  learned  how  painful  the 
separation  had  been  to  her.  She  would  not  waste  his  strength 
and  her  own  in  vain  lamentation  over  a  necessary  evil.  Four 
years  sufficed  to  prepare  Herbert  Latimer  for  his  profession,  and 
through  the  influence  of  some  of  his  mother's  early  friends, 
exerted  at  her  earnest  request,  the  legislative  act  which  per 
mitted  his  entrance  on  its  duties,  was  passed.  The  knowledge 
of  his  circumstances  had  excited  a  warm  interest  for  him  in 
many  minds,  and  those  who  heard  his  name,  for  the  first  time, 
when  he  stood  before  them  for  examination,  could  not  but  feel 
prepossessed  in  favor  of  the  youth,  on  whose  bold  brow  deep 
and  lofty  thoughts  had  left  their  impress,  and  in  whose  grave, 
earnest  eyes  the  spirit  seer  might  have  read  the  history  of  a  life 
of  endurance  and  silent  struggle.  All  were  interested  in  him — 
all  evinced  that  interest  by  gentle  courtesy  of  manner — and 
almost  all  seemed  desirous  to  make  his  examination  as  light  as 
possible — all  save  one — one  usually  as  remarkable  for  his  indul 
gence  to  young  aspirants,  as  for  the  legal  acumen  and  extensive 


22  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

knowledge,  which  had  won  for  him  a  large  share  of  the  profits 
and  honors  of  his  profession.  His  associates  now  wondered  to 
find  him  so  rigidly  exact  in  his  trial  of  young  Latimer's  acquire 
ments. 

"  You  were  very  severe  on  our  young  tyro  to-day,"  said  a 
brother  lawyer,  and  one  on  whom  early  association  and  simi- 
,larity  of  pursuits,  rather  than  of  tastes,  had  conferred  the  privi 
leges  of  a  friend  to  Mr.  Cavendish,  as  they  walked  together  from 
the  court-house. 

"  I  saw  that  he  did  not  need  indulgence,  and  I  gave  him  an 
opportunity  of  proving  to  others  that  he  did  not — but  I  had 
another  and  more  selfish  reason  for  my  rigid  test  of  his  powers." 

Mr.  Cavendish  spoke  smilingly,  and  his  friend  was  em 
boldened  to  ask — "  And  pray  what  selfish  motive  could  you  have 
for  it?" 

"  I  wished  to  see  whether  he  would  suit  me  as  a  partner." 

"  A  partner !" 

"  Yes — when  a  man  has  lived  for  half  a  century,  he  begins  to 
think  that  he  may  possibly  grow  old  one  of  those  days,  and  I  would 
provide  myself  with  a  young  partner,  who  may  take  the  laboring 
oar  in  my  business  when  age  compels  me  to  lay  it  aside." 

"  All  that  may  do  very  well — I  have  some  thought  of  doing 
the  same  myself ;  but  I  shall  look  out  for  a  young  man  who  is 
well  connected.  Connections  do  a  great  deal  for  us,  you  know, 
and  we  must  always  have  an  eye  to  the  main  chance." 

"  I  agree  with  you,  but  we  should  probably  differ  about  what 
constitutes  the  main  chance." 

"  There  surely  can  be  no  difference  about  that ;  it  means  with 
every  one  the  one  thing  needful." 

"  And  what  is,  in  your  opinion,  the  one  thing  needful  ?" 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  23 

"  Why  this  to  be  sure,"  and  Mr.  Duffield  drew  his  purse  from 
his  pocket,  and  shook  it  playfully. 

"  A  somewhat  different  use  of  the  term  from  that  which  the 
Bible  makes,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish. 

"  Oh !  let  the  Bible  alone,  and  let  me  hear  what  you  think 
of  it." 

"  Pardon  me,  I  cannot  let  the  Bible  alone  if  I  tell  you  my  own 
opinions,  for  from  the  Bible  I  learned  them." 

"  It  seems  an  odd  book,  I  must  say,  to  consult  for  a  law  of 
partnerships." 

"  Had  you  a  better  acquaintance  with  it,  Duffield,  you'  would 
learn  that  its  principles  apply  to  all  the  relations  of  life.  The 
difference  between  us  is,  that  when  you  estimate  man's  chief  ob. 
ject,  or  as  you  call  it,  his  'main  chance,'  you  take  only  the  pre. 
sent  into  view,  you  leave  out  of  sight  altogether  the  interminable 
future,  with  its  higher  hopes  and  deeper  interests,  and  relations 
of  immeasurably  greater  importance." 

"  I  find  it  enough  for  one  poor  brain  to  calculate  for  the 
present." 

"  A  great  deal  too  much  you  will  find  it,  if  you  leave  out 
of  your  sum  so  important  an  item  as  the  relations  of  that  present 
to  the  future.  Depend  on  it,  Duffield,  that  he  makes  the  most  for 
this  life,  as  well  as  for  the  next,  of  his  time,  his  talents,  and  his 
wealth,  who  uses  them  as  God's  steward,  for  the  happiness  of  his 
fellow-creatures,  as  well  as  for  his  own." 

"  And  so,  for  the  happiness  of  your  fellow-creatures,  you  are 
going  to  give  away  half  of  the  best  practice  in  the  State." 

"  I  am  going  to  do  no  such  thing.  In  the  first  place,  I  did 
not  tell  you  that  I  was  going  to  offer  young  Latimer  an  equal 
division  of  the  profits  of  my  practice  ;  and  for  what  I  may  offer 


24  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

him  I  have  already  taken  care  to  ascertain  that  he  can  return  a 
full  equivalent.  His  talents  only  need  a  vantage-ground  on 
which  to  act,  and  I  rejoice  to  be  able  to  give  him  that  of  which 
my  own  early  experience  taught  me  to  value." 

"  Well — we  shall  see  ten  years  hence  how  your  rule  and  mine 
work.  I  think  I  shall  offer  a  partnership  to  young  Conway — he 
is  already  rising  in  his  profession,  and  is  connected  with  some  of 
our  wealthiest  families." 

"  Very  well — we  will  see." 

Herbert  Latimer  had  nerved  himself  to  endure  five,  or  it 
might  'be  ten  more  years  of  profitless  toil,  ere  he  should  gain  a 
position  which  would  make  his  tilents  available  for  more  than 
the  mere  essentials  of  existence.  Let  those  who  have  looked  on 
so  dreary  a  prospect — who  have  buckled  on  their  armor  for  such 
a  combat,  judge  of  the  grateful  emotion  with  which  he  received 
the  generous  proposal  of  Mr.  Cavendish.  This  proposal,  while  it 
gave  him  at  once  an  opportunity  for  the  exercise  of  his  powers,  se 
cured  to  him  for  the  first  year  one-fifth,  for  the  two  following  years 
one-fourth,  and  after  that,  if  neither  partner  chose  to  withdraw 
from  the  connection,  one-half  of  the  profits  of  a  business,  the  re 
ceipts  from  which  had  for  several  years  averaged  over  ten  thou 
sand  dollars.  Mr.  Cavendish  soon  found  that  he  had  done  well 
to  trust  to  the  gratitude  of  his  young  partner  for  inducing  the 
most  active  exercise  of  his  powers.  Stimulated  by  the  desire  to 
prove  himself  not  unworthy  of  such  kindness,  and  to  secure  his 
generous  friend  from  any  loss,  Herbert  never  overlooked  aught 
that  could  advance  the  interests,  nor  grew  weary  of  any  task  that 
could  lighten  the  toil  of  Mr,  Cavendish. 

"  Herbert,  you  really  make  me  ashamed  of  myself,  you  are  so 
constantly  busy  that  I  seem  idle  in  comparison,"  said  Mr.  Caven- 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  25 

dish,  as  lie  prepared  one  day  to  lay  by  his  papers  and  leave  the 
office  at  three  o'clock.  "  Pray,  put  away  those  musty  books,  and 
bring  Mrs.  Latimer  to  dine  with  us — this  is  a  fete  day  with  us. 
My  daughter,  who  has  been  for  two  months  with  her  uncle  and 
aunt  in  Washington,  has  returned,  and  I  want  to  introduce  her 
to  Mrs.  Latimer." 

"  My  mother  will  come  to  you  with  pleasure,  I  am  sure." 

"  And  you  ?" 

"  Will  come  too,  if  I  possibly  can.     You  dine  at  five  ?" 

"  Yes — and  remember  punctuality  is  the  soul  of  dinner  as 
well  as  of  business.  So  do  not  let  the  charms  of  Coke  upon  Lyt- 
tleton  make  you  forget  that  fair  ladies  and  hungry  gentlemen  are 
expecting  you."  Mr.  Cavendish  closed  the  door  with  a  smiling 
face,  and  Herbert  Latimer  turned  for  another  hour  to  his  books 
and  papers.  At  a  quarter  before  five  he  stood  with  his  mother 
in  the  drawing-room  of  Mr.  Cavendish,  and  received  his  first 
introduction  to  one  who  soon  became  the  star  of  his  life. 

Mary  Cavendish  was  not  beautiful — far  less  could  the  word 
pretty  have  been  applied  to  her — but  she  was  lovely.  All  that 
we  most  love  in  woman,  all  pure  and  peaceful  thoughts,  all  sweet 
and  gentle  affections,  seemed  to  beam  from  her  eyes,  or  to  sit 
throned  upon  her  fair  and  open  brow.  She  had  enjoyed  all  the 
advantages,  as  it  is  termed,  of  a  fashionable  education,  but  the 
influences  of  her  home  had  been  more  powerful  than  those  of  her 
school,  and  she  remained  what  nature  had  made  her — a  warm 
hearted,  truthful,  generous,  and  gentle  girl — too  ingenuous  for 
the  pretty  affectations,  too  generous  for  the  heartless  coquetries 
which  too  often  teach  us  that  the  accomplished  young  lady  has 
sacrificed,  for  her  external  refinement,  qualities  of  a  nobler  stamp 
arid  more  delicate  beauty.  The  only  daughter  among  several 


26  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

children,  she  was  an  idol  in  her  home,  and  every  movement  of 
her  life  seemed  impelled  by  the  desire  to  repay  the  wealth  of 
affection  that  was  lavished  upon  her.  It  was  impossible  to  see 
such  a  being  daily  in  the  intimacy  of  her  home  associations — the 
sphere  in  which  her  gentle  spirit  shone  most  brightly — without 
loving  her  ;  and  Herbert  soon  felt  that  he  loved  her,  yet  he  added 
in  his  thoughts  "  in  all  honor,"  and  to  him  it  would  have  seemed 
little  honorable  to  attempt  to  win  this  priceless  treasure  from  him 
to  whose  generosity  he  owed  his  place  in  her  circle.  Mrs.  Lati- 
mer,  though  she  did  not  fear  for  her  son's  honor,  trembled  for  his 
future  peace  as  she  marked  the  sadness  which  often  stole  over  him, 
after  spending  an  hour  in  the  society  of  this  lovely  girl ;  but 
Mrs.  Latimer  was  a  wise  woman — she  knew  that  speech  is  to 
such  emotions  often  as  the  lighted  match  to  a  magazine,  and 
she  kept  silence. 

For  almost  a  year  after  his  introduction,  Herbert  continued 
in  daily  intercourse  with  Mary  Cavendish  to  drink  fresh  draughts 
of  love,  yet  so  carefully  did  he  guard  his  manner,  that  no  sus 
picion  of  his  warmer  emotions  threw  a  shadow  over  her  friend 
ship,  or  checked  the  frankness  with  which  she  unveiled  to  him 
the  rich  treasures  of  her  mind  and  heart.  It  was  in  the  au 
tumn  succeeding  their  first  acquaintance  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ca 
vendish  issued  cards  for  a  large  party  at  their  house.  It  would 
be  too  gay  a  scene  for  the  quiet  taste  of  Mrs.  Latimer,  but  Her 
bert  would  be  there,  and  at  the  request  of  Mrs.  Cavendish  he 
promised  to  come  early.  The  promise  was  kept.  He  arrived 
half  an  hour  at  least  before  any  other  guest,  bringing  with  him  a 
bouquet  of  rare  and  beautiful  flowers  for  Mary.  As  he  entered 
the  hall  he  heard  a  slight  scream  from  the  parlor  beside  whose 
open  door  he  stood.  The  scream  was  in  a  voice  to  whose  light- 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  27 

est  tone  his  heart  responded,  and  in  an  instant,  he  was  beside 
Mary  Cavendish,  had  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  and  pressing  her 
closely  to  his  person,  was  endeavoring  to  extinguish  with  his 
hands  the  flames  that  enveloped  her.  The  evening  was  cold : 
there  was  a  fire  in  the  grate,  before  which  Mary  stood  arranging 
some  flowers  on  the  mantel-piece,  when  the  door  was  opened  for 
him.  The  sudden  rush  of  air  had  wafted  her  light,  floating  dra 
pery  of  gauze  and  lace  into  the  fire,  and  in  a  moment  all  was  in  a 
blaze.  Fortunate  was  it  for  her,  that  under  this  light,  flimsy 
drapery,  was  worn  a  dress  of  stouter  texture  and  less  combustible 
material — a  rich  satin.  After  the  slight  scream  which  had 
brought  him  to  her  side,  Mary  uttered  no  sound,  and  with  his 
whole  soul  concentrated  on  action,  he  had  been  equally  silent  till 
the  last  spark  was  smothered.  Then  gazing  wildly  in  her  pallid 
face  he  exclaimed,  "  In  mercy  speak  to  me !  Did  I  come  too 
late  ?"  Are  you  burned  ? 

"  I  scarcely  know — I  think  not,"  she  faltered  out.  Then,  as 
she  made  an  effort  to  withdraw  from  his  arms,  added  quickly— 
"  no — not  at  all." 

Completely  overpowered  by  the  revulsion  of  feeling  which 
those  words  occasioned,  Herbert  clasped  her  again  in  his  arms, 
and  fervently  ejaculating,  "  Thank  God !"  pressed  his  lips  to  her 
cheek.  At  that  moment,  the  voice  of  Mr.  Cavendish  was  heard 
in  the  next  room,  and  breaking  from  him,  Mary  rushed  to  her 
astonished  father,  and  burying  her  face  in  his  bosom,  burst  into 
tears.  Aroused  to  full  consciousness  by  the  presence  of  another, 
Herbert  stood  trembling  and  dismayed  at  the  remembrance  of  his 
own  rashness.  Agitated  as  she  was,  Mary  was  compelled  to 
answer  her  father's  questions,  for  he  seemed  wholly  unable  to 
speak. 


28  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

"  Latimer,  I  owe  my  child's  life  probably  to  you.  How  shall 
I  repay  the  debt  ?"  cried  Mr.  Cavendish,  attempting,  as  he  spoke, 
to  clasp  Herbert's  hand.  He  winced  at  the  touch,  and  a  sudden 
contraction  passed  over  his  face. 

"  You  are  burned,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish,  and  would  have  ex 
amined  his  hand,  but  throwing  his  handkerchief  over  it,  Herbert 
declared  it  was  not  worth  mentioning,  though  at  the  same  time 
he  confessed  that  the  pain  was  sufficient  to  make  him  desirous  to 
return  home,  and  have  some  soothing  application  made  to  it. 
Mr.  Cavendish  parted  from  him  with  regret,  with  earnest  charges 
that  he  should  take  care  of  himself,  and  equally  earnest  hopes 
that  he  might  be  sufficiently  relieved  to  return  to  them  before  the 
evening  was  passed ;  but  Mary  still  lay  in  her  father's  arms,  with 
her  face  hidden,  and  noticed  Herbert's  departure  neither  by  word 
nor  look. 

"  I  have  outraged  her  delicacy,  and  she  cannot  bear  even  to 
see  me,"  he  said  to  himself. 

In  passing  out  he  accidentally  trod  on  the  flowers  which  he 
had  selected  with  such  care — "  crushed  like  my  own  heart !"  he 
ejaculated  mentally. 

A  fortnight  passed  before  Herbert  Latimer  could  take  his 
accustomed  place  in  the  office  of  Mr.  Cavendish.  His  hand  had 
been  deeply  burned — so  deeply  that  the  pain  had  produced  fever. 
During  this  period  of  suffering,  Mr.  Cavendish  had  often  visited 
him,  and  Mrs.  Cavendish  had  more  than  once  taken  his  mother's 
place  at  his  bedside ;  but  Herbert  found  little  pleasure  in  their 
attentions,  for  he  said  to  himself,  "If  they  knew  all  my  presump 
tion,  they  would  be  less  kind." 

His  illness  passed  away,  his  hands  healed,  and  he  resumed 
his  accustomed  avocations ;  but  no  invitation,  however  urgent, 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  £9 

could  win  him  again  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Cavendish.  "I  have 
proved  my  own  weakness — I  will  not  place  myself  again  in  the 
way  of  temptation,"  was  the  language  of  his  heart.  Apologies 
became  awkward.  He  felt  that  he  must  seem  to  his  friend 
ungracious  if  not  ungrateful ;  and  one  day  observing  unusual 
seriousness  in  the  countenance  of  Mr.  Cavendish  on  his  declining 
an  invitation  to  dine  with  him,  he  exclaimed,  "  You  look  displeas 
ed,  and  I  can  scarcely  wonder  at  it ;  but  could  you  know  my 
reason  for  denying  myself  the  pleasure  of  visiting  you,  I  am  sure 
you  would  think  me  right." 

"  Perhaps  so ;  but  as  I  do  not  know  it,  you  cannot  be  surprised 
that  your  determined  withdrawal  from  our  circle  should  wound 
both  my  feelings  and  those  of  my  family." 

Herbert  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand  for  a  moment,  and 
then  turning  them  with  a  grave  and  even  sad  expression  on  Mr. 
Cavendish,  said,  "  I  have  declined  your  invitations  only  because 
I  could  not  accept  them  with  honor :  I  love  your  daughter — I 
have  loved  her  almost  from  the  first  hour  of  my  acquaintance 
with  her." 

"  And  why  have  you  not  told  me  so  before,  Herbert?"  asked 
Mr.  Cavendish,  with  no  anger  in  his  tones. 

"  Because  I  believed  myself  capable  of  loving  in  silence,  and 
while  I  wronged  no  one,  I  was  willing  to  indulge  in  the  sweet 
poison  of  her  society ;  but  a  moment  of  danger  to  her  destroyed 
my  self-control.  What  has  been  may  be  again — I  have  learned 
to  distrust  myself — I  cannot  tamper  with  temptation,  lest  I  should 
one  day  use  the  position  in  which  you  have  placed  me,  and  the 
advantages  which  you  have  bestowed  on  me,  in  endeavoring  to 
win  from  you  a  treasure  which  you  may  well  be  reluctant  to 
yield  to  me." 


30  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

"  Herbert,  I  only  blame  you  for  not  having  spoken  to  me 
sooner  of  this." 

"  I  feel  now  that  I  should  have  done  so — it  was  a  want  of 
self-knowledge,  the  rash  confidence  of  one  untried  which  kept 
me  silent." 

"  No,  Herbert — it  was  a  want  of  knowledge  of  me — of  confi 
dence  in  my  justice — I  will  not  say  my  kindness.  What  higher 
views  do  you  suppose  I  can  entertain  for  my  daughter,  than  to 
make  her  the  wife  of  one  who  has  a  prospect  of  obtaining  the 
highest  eminence  in  my  own  profession." 

"  If  that  prospect  be  mine,  to  you  I  owe  it — could  I  make  it 
a  plea  for  asking  more  ?" 

"  You  owe  what  I  did  for  you  to  the  interest  and  esteem 
excited  by  your  own  qualities,  and  all  I  did  has  only  given  you 
a  place  for  the  exercise  of  those  qualities — I  do  not  know  how 
you  will  win  Mary's  forgiveness  for  refraining  from  her  society 
on  such  slight  grounds." 

"  Dare  I  hope  for  your  permission  to  seek  that  forgiveness  ?" 

"  Dare  I  hope  for  your  company  to  dinner  to-day?" 

"  Now  that  you  know  all,  nothing  could  give  me  so  much 
pleasure — though  I  fear — 

"  What,  fearing  again  !" 

"  I  fear  that  Miss  Cavendish  is  very  much  displeased  with 
me." 

"  For  saving  her  life  ?" 

"  No — not  exactly  that." 

Herbert  Latimer  did  not  confide  the  cause  of  his  fear  to  Mr. 
Cavendish,  neither  did  he  suffer  it  to  interfere  with  his  visit  on 
that  day.  He  went  to  dinner,  but  stayed  to  tea,  and  long  after, 
and  as  Mary  was  his  companion  for  much,  if  not  all  of  this  time, 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  31 

we  presume  that  her  displeasure  could  not  have  been  manifested 
in  any  very  serious  manner. 

It  was  about  six  weeks  after  this  renewal  of  his  visits  that  Mr. 
Duffield,  meeting  his  friend  Mr.  Cavendish  one  morning,  accosted 
him  with,  "  I  hear  that  your  daughter  is  going  to  marry  young 
Latimer — is  it  true  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  I  heartily  wish  the  affair  were  over,  for  I  hope 
Herbert  will  recover  his  senses  when  he  is  actually  married,  and 
now  I  am  obliged  to  attend  to  his  business  and  my  own  too." 

"Not  much  profit  in  that  I  should  think — I  manage  some 
what  differently." 

"  Did  you  not  tell  me  that  you  intended  forming  a  partnership 
with  young  Conway  ?" 

"  Yes — but  before  I  had  done  so,  I  heard  that  Sprague,  who 
is  as  well  connected  as  Conway,  and  a  great  deal  more  industrious, 
would  go  into  business  with  me  on  less  exacting  terms.  He  has 
been  associated  with  me  for  some  time.  He  does  all  the  drudgery 
of  the  business,  and  is  content  with  one-eighth  of  the  profits  for 
five  years." 

"  Those  are  low  terms — with  talent  and  connection  too,  I 
should  think  he  could  have  done  better." 

"  Why,  you  see  his  connections  were  of  little  use  to  him  while 
he  was  alone,  for  he  was  so  desperately  poor  that  they  did  not 
like  to  acknowledge  him,  but  I  knew  as  soon  as  he  began  to  rise 
they  would  all  notice  him,  and  so  it  has  proved.  I  have  no  doubt 
I  shall  gain  through  them  more  than  the  thousand  dollars  a  year 
which  Sprague  will  draw,  while  I  shall  be  saved  every  thing 
which  is  really  disagreeable  or  laborious  in  my  practice ;  and  you 
give  two  thousand  dollars  a  year,  and  are  going  to  marry  your 
daughter  to  a  gentleman  who  leaves  all  the  business  on  your 


32  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

hands — which,  of  us,  do  you  think,  has  attended  most  successfully 
to  the  main  chance  ?" 

"  According  to  my  views  of 'the  main  chance,  it  is  not  to  be 
determined  by  such  data — but  even  in  your  own  view  we  may 
have  a  very  different  account  to  render  nine  years  hence  ?" 

"  Ah,  well !  Ten  years  from  the  day  that  Latimer  passed  we 
will  compare  notes." 

Ten  years  are  long  in  prospective,  but  it  seemed  to  both  parties 
but  a  short  time  when  the  appointed  anniversary  came.  On  that 
day  Mr.  Cavendish  invited  several  of  his  brother  lawyers,  and 
amongst  them  Mr.  Duffield,  to  dinner.  Herbert  Latimer,  his  wife 
and  mother,  his  two  noble  boys,  and  though  last,  not  least  in 
importance,  if  in  size,  his  little  girl,  her  grandfather's  especial  pet, 
were  of  the  party.  It  was  a  well  assorted  party.  The  guests 
found  good  cheer  and  social  converse — the  cherished  friends  of 
the  house,  food  for  deeper  and  higher  enjoyment.  When  the 
ladies  had  withdrawn,  calling  Herbert  Latimer  to  the  head  of  the 
table,  Mr.  Cavendish  seated  himself  beside  Mr.  Duffield. 

"  Well,  Duffield !"  he  exclaimed,  "  do  you  know  that  it  is 
ten  years  to-day  since  Herbert  Latimer  stood  before  us  for 
examination  ?" 

"Ah!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Duffield,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  did 
not  care  to  pursue  the  subject  further. 

"  You  remember  our  agreement — are  you  still  willing  to  make 
our  success  in  that  time  a  test  of  the  truth  of  our  respective 
principles  ?" 

"  It  may  afford  a  more  conclusive  proof  of  your  better  judg 
ment  in  the  selection  of  an  associate." 

"  Sprague  stands  very  high  in  his  profession." 

"  Yes — I  knew  he  would,  for  he  has  talent  and  connection — 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  33 

therefore  I  chose  him  ;  but  he  left  me  just  at  the  time  these  were 
beginning  to  be  available,  as  soon  as  the  five  years  for  which  our 
agreement  was  made,  had  expired." 

"  What  occasioned  his  leaving  you?" 

"  Why,  Duval  offered  him  better  terms  than  I  had  done — I 
should  not  have  cared  so  much  for  his  going,  but  he  carried  off 
many  of  my  clients,  with  whom  he  had  ingratiated  himself  during 
his  connection  with  me.  My  business  has  scarcely  recovered  yet 
from  the  injury  which  he  did  it." 

"  He  seems  to  have  acted  on  your  own  principle,  and  to  have 
considered  the  main  chance  to  mean  the  most  money." 

"  And  do  you  suppose  Latimer  would  have  remained  with 
you  if  he  could  have  made  better  terms  for  himself  ?" 

"  I  know  that  during  my  long  illness  he  was  offered  double 
what  he  was  receiving,  or  could  then  hope  ever  to  receive  from 
my  business,  and  his  reply  to  the  offer  was  that  the  bonds  forged 
by  gratitude  and  affection,  no  interest  could  break.  He  has  now 
built  up  the  business  again  to  far  more  than  it  was  when  he  joined 
me — I  know  that  I  owe  most  of  it  to  him,  yet  he  will  not  listen  to 
any  advice  to  dissolve  our  partnership.  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  I 
have  a  sentiment  to  propose  to  you  which  you  may  drink  in  wine 
or  water,  as  you  like  best.  '  THE  MAIN  CHANCE — always  best 
secured  by  obedience  to  the  golden  rule — as  ye  would  that  others 
should  do  unto  you,  do  ye  even  so  unto  them.' " 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  morning  after  Mr.  Arlington  had  commenced  our  Christmas 
entertainments  with  the  sketch  of  his  friend  Herbert  Latimer's 
life,  was  dark  and  gloomy.  At  least,  such  was  its  aspect  abroad, 
where  leaden  clouds  covered  the  sky,  and  a  cold,  sleety  rain  fell 
fast ;  but  within,  all  was  bright,  and  warm,  and  cheerful.  Imme 
diately  after  breakfast  we  separated,  each  in  search  of  amusement 
suited  to  his  or  her  own  tastes ;  some  to  the  music  room,  some  to 
the  library,  and  Eobert  Dudley  and  Annie  Donaldson  to  a  game 
of  battledore  and  shuttlecock  in  the  wide  hall,  with  Mr.  Arlington 
for  a  spectator.  As  the  storm  increased,  however,  all  seemed  to 
feel  the  want  of  companionship,  and  without  any  preconcerted 
plan,  we  found  ourselves,  about  two  hours  after  breakfast,  again 
assembled  in  the  room  in  which  quiet,  patient  Mrs.  Donaldson 
sat,  ravelling  the  netting  of  the  last  evening. 

"  Now  for  Aunt  Nancy's  port-folio,"  cried  Annie,  as  soon  as 
conversation  began  to  flag. 

The  proposal  was  seconded  so  warmly  that,  as  I  could  urge 
nothing  against  it,  the  port-folio  was  immediately  produced,  and 
Annie,  taking  possession  of  it,  commissioned  Eobert  Dudley  to 
draw  forth  an  engraving.  That  which  first  presented  itself  the 
reader  will  find  on  the  opposite  page. 

"  Scene,  a  chamber  by  night,  a  sleeping  baby  and  a  sleepy 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  35 

mother,  a  basket  of  needle-work — I  am  sure  it  is  needle-work — 
on  the  floor,  and  a  cross  suspended  from  the  wall,"  said  Annie, 
describing  the  engraving  which  she  had  taken  from  Eobert. 

"  That  cross  looks  promising,"  said  Colonel  Donaldson,  who 
likes  a  little  romance  as  well  as  any  of  his  daughters.  "Let  us 
have  the  fair  lady's  history,  Aunt  Nancy." 

"I  know  nothing  about  her,"  said  I,  with  a  smile  at  his 
eagerness. 

"  Then  why,  dear  Aunt  Nancy,  did  you  keep  the  engraving?" 
asked  Annie. 

"  I  might  answer,  because  of  my  interest  in  the  scene  it  de 
picts — a  scene  in  which  religion  seems  to  shed  its  sanctifying 
influence  over  the  tenderest  affection  and  the  homeliest  duties  of 
our  common  life ;  but  I  had  another  reason." 

"Ah!  I  knew  it,"  exclaimed  Annie. 

"I  first  saw  this  print  in  company  with  a  very  cultivated  and 
interesting  German  lady,  to  whose  memory  the  sleeping  baby 
recalled  a  cradle-song  written  by  her  countryman,  the  brave 
Korner.  She  sung  it  for  me,  and,  as  the  German  is,  I  am  grieved 
to  say,  a  sealed  book  to  me,  she  gave  me  a  literal  translation  of 
the  words,  which — " 

"  Which  you  have  put  into  English  verse,  and  written  here  at 
the  back  of  the  engraving  in  the  finest  of  all  fine  writing,  and 
which  father  will  put  on  his  spectacles  and  read  for  us." 

"  No ;  I  commission  Mr.  Arlington  to  do  that,"  said  the  Colonel, 
"  without  his  spectacles." 

"  First,"  said  I,  "let  me  assure  you  that  the  original  is  full  of 
a  simple,  natural  tenderness,  which,  I  fear  in  the  double  process 
of  translating  and  versifying,  has  entirely  escaped." 

Mr.  Arlington,  taking  the  paper  from  Annie,  now  read, — 


36  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 


A  FREE  TRANSLATION  FROM  KORNER. 


SLUMBERER  !  to  thy  mother's  breast 
So  fondly  folded,  sweetly  rest ! 
Within  that  fair  and  quiet  world, 
With  downy  pinions  scarce  unfurled, 
Life  gently  passes,  nor  doth  bring 
One  dream  of  sorrow  on  its  wing. 


Pleasant  our  dreams  in  early  hours, 
When  Mother-love  our  life  embowers ; — 
Ah !  Mother-love !  thy  tender  light 
Hath  vanished  from  my  sky  of  night, 
Scarce  leaving  there  one  fading  ray 
To  thrill  me  with  remembered  day. 


Thrice,  by  the  smile  of  fav'ring  Heaven, 
To  man  this  holiest  joy  is  given ; 
Thrice,  circled  by  the  arms  of  love, 
With  glowing  spirit  he  may  prove 
The  highest  rapture  heart  can  feel, 
The  noblest  hopes  our  lives  reveal. 


The  earliest  blessings  that  enwreathed 
His  infant  days,  'twas  Love  that  breathed. 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  37 

In  Love's  warm  smile  the  nursling  blooms, 
Nor  fears  one  shade  that  o'er  him  glooms, 
While  flowers  unfold  and  waters  dance 
In  joy,  beneath  his  first,  fresh  glance. 


And  when  around  the  youth's  bold  course 
Clouds  gather — tempests  spend  then*  force — 
When  his  soul  darkens  with  his  sky, 
Again  the  Love-God  hovers  nigh ; 
And  on  some  gentle  maiden's  breast, 
Lulls  him,  once  more,  to  blissful  rest. 


But  when  his  heart  bends  to  the  power 
Of  storm,  as  bends  the  summer  flower, 
'Tis  Love  that,  as  the  Angel-Death 
Wooes  from  his  lips  the  ling'ring  breath, 
And  gently  bears  his  soul  above, 
To  the  bright  skies — the  home  of  Love. 

"  Poor  Korner !"  said  Mr.  Arlington,  as  he  concluded  reading 
this  song — if  indeed  it  may  claim  that  name  in  its  English  dress 
— "  I  can  sympathize,  as  few  can  do,  with  his  mournful  memory 
of  mother-love." 

This  was  said  in  a  tone  of  such  genuine  emotion,  that  I  looked 
at  him  with  even  more  pleasure  than  I  had  hitherto  done. 

"  Such  tenderness  touches  us  particularly  when  found,  as  in 
Korner,  in  union  with  manly  and  vigorous  qualities — perhaps, 
because  it  is  a  rare  combination,"  said  Mrs.  Dudley. 

"Is  it  rare?"  I  asked  doubtfully.  "  The  results  of  my  own 
observation  have  led  me  to  believe  that  it  is  precisely  in  manly, 


38  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

vigorous,  independent  minds  that  we  see  the  fullest  development 
of  our  simple,  natural,  home-affections." 

"You  are  right,  Aunt  Nancy,"  said  Col.  Donaldson;  "it 
is  only  boys  striving  to  seem  manly,  and  men  of  boyish  minds, 
who  fail  to  acknowledge  with  reverence  and  tenderness  the  value 
of  a  mother's  love." 

"  So  convinced  am  I  of  this,"  I  replied,  "  that  I  would  ask 
for  no  more  certain  indication  of  a  man's  nobility  of  nature,  than 
his  manner  to  his  mother.  I  remember  a  striking  illustration 
of  the  fidelity  of  such  an  indication  in  two  brothers  of  the  name 
of  Manning,  with  whom  I  was  once  acquainted.  The  one  was 
quite  a  petit-maitre,  a  dandy ;  the  other,  a  fine  creature — large- 
minded  and  large-hearted.  The  first  betrayed  in  every  look  and 
movement,  that  he  considered  himself  greatly  his  mother's  supe 
rior,  and  feared  every  moment  that  she  should  detract  from  his 
dignity  by  some  sin  against  the  dicta  of  fashion ;  the  other  did 
honor  at  once  to  her  and  to  himself,  by  his  reverent  devotion  to 
her.  They  were  a  contrast,  and  a  contrast  which  circumstances 
brought  out  most  strikingly.  Ah,  Mr.  Arlington !  I  wish  you 
could  have  seen  them — a  sketch  of  them  from  your  pencil  would 
have  been  a  picture  indeed." 

"We  will  take  your  word-painting  instead,"  said  Mr.  Ar 
lington. 

"  A  mere  description  in  words  could  not  present  them  to  you 
in  all  their  strongly-marked  diversity  of  character.  To  do  this, 
I  must  give  you  a  history  of  their  lives." 

"  And  why  not  ?" — and — "  Oh,  yes,  Aunt  Nancy,  that  is 
just  what  we  want,"  was  echoed  from  one  to  another.  They 
consented  to  delay  their  gratification  till  the  evening,  that  I  might 
have  a  little  time  to  arrange  my  reminiscences ;  and  when  "  the 
hours  of  long  uninterrupted  evening"  came,  and  we  had 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  39 

" stirred  the  fire  and  closed  the  shutters  fast, 

Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheeled  the  sofa  round," 

and  disposed  ourselves  in  comfort  for  talking  and  for  listening, 
I  gave  them  the  relation  which  you  will  find  below  under  the 
title  of 


OR,   IN"  THE   FASHION  AND  ABOVE  THE   FASHION. 

"  SOME  men  are  born  to  greatness — some  achieve  greatness,  and 
some  have  greatness  thrust  upon  them."  Henry  Manning  be 
longed  to  the  second  of  these  three  great  classes.  The  son  of  a 
mercantile  adventurer,  who  won  and  lost  a  fortune  by  specula 
tion,  he  found  himself  at  sixteen  years  of  age  called  on  to  choose 
between  the  life  of  a  Western  farmer,  with  its  vigorous  action, 
stirring  incident  and  rough  usage — and  the  life  of  a  clerk  in  one 
of  the  most  noted  establishments  in  Broadway,  the  great  source 
and  centre  of  fashion  in  New- York.  Mr.  Morgan,  the  brother 
of  Mrs.  Manning,  who  had  been  recalled  from  the  distant  West 
by  the  death  of  her  husband,  and  the  embarrassments  into  which 
that  event  had  plunged  her,  had  obtained  the  offer  of  the  last 
situation  for  one  of  his  two  nephews,  and  would  take  the  other 
with  him  to  his  prairie  home. 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  go  with  me,  Matilda,"  he  said  to  his 
sister,  "  because  our  life  is  yet  too  wild  and  rough  to  suit  a  deli 
cate  woman,  reared,  as  you  have  been,  in  the  midst  of  luxurious 
refinements.  The  difficulties  and  privations  of  life  in  the  West 
fall  most  heavily  upon  woman,  while  she  has  little  of  that  sus- 


40  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

taining  power  which  man's  more  adventurous  spirit  finds  in 
overcoming  difficulty  and  coping  with  danger.  Bat  let  me  have 
one  of  your  boys ;  and  by  the  time  he  has  arrived  at  manhood, 
he  will  be  able,  I  doubt  not,  to  offer  you  in  his  home  all  the 
comforts,  if  not  all  the  elegancies,  of  your  present  abode." 

Mrs.  Manning  consented ;  and  now  the  question  was,  which 
of  her  sons  should  remain  with  her,  and  which  should  accompany 
Mr.  Morgan.  To  Henry  Manning,  older  by  two  years  than  his 
brother  George,  the  choice  of  situations  was  submitted.  He  went 
with  his  uncle  to  the  Broadway  establishment,  heard  the  duties 
which  would  be  demanded  from  him,  the  salary  which  would  be 
given,  saw  the  grace  with  which  the  elegants  behind  the  counter 
displayed  their  silks,  and  satins,  and  velvets,  to  the  elegantes  be 
fore  the  counter,  and  the  decision  with  which  they  promulgated 
the  decrees  of  fashion;  and  with  that  just  sense  of  his  own 
powers,  which  is  the  accompaniment  of  true  genius,  he  decided 
at  once  that  there  lay  his  vocation.  George,  who  had  not  been 
without  difficulty  kept  quiet,  while  his  brother  was  forming  his 
decision,  as  soon  as  it  was  announced,  sprang  forward  with  a 
whoop  that  would  have  suited  a  Western  forest  better  than  a 
New- York  drawing-room,  threw  the  Horace  he  was  reading 
across  the  table,  clasped  first  his  mother  and  then  his  uncle  in  his 
arms,  and  exclaimed,  "  I  am  the  boy  for  the  West.  I  will  help 
you  fell  forests  and  build  cities  there,  uncle.  Why  should  not 
we  build  cities  as  well  as  Romulus  and  Remus  ?" 

"  I  will  supply  your  cities  with  all  their  silks,  and  satins,  and 
velvets,  and  laces,  and  charge  them  nothing,  George,"  said  Henry 
Manning,  with  that  air  of  superiority  with  which  the  worldly- 
wise  often  look  on  the  sallies  of  the  enthusiast. 

"  You  make  my  head  ache,  my  son,"  complained  Mrs.  Man- 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  41 

ning,  shrinking  from  his  boisterous  gratulation ; — but  Mr.  Morgan 
returned  his  hearty  embrace,  and  as  he  gazed  into  his  bold,  bright 
face,  with  an  eye  as  bright  as  his  own,  replied  to  his  burst  of 
enthusiasm,  "  You  are  the  very  boy  for  the  West,  George.  It  is 
out  of  such  brave  stuff  that  pioneers  and  city-builders  are  always 
made." 

Henry  Manning  soon  bowed  himself  into  the  favor  of  the 
ladies  who  formed  the  principal  customers  of  his  employer.  By 
his  careful  and  really  correct  habits,  and  his  elegant  taste  in  the 
selection  and  arrangement  of  goods,  he  became  also  a  favorite 
with  his  employers  themselves.  They  needed  an  agent  for  the 
selection  of  goods  abroad,  and  they  sent  him.  He  purchased 
cloths  for  them  in  England,  and  silks  in  France,  and  came  home 
with  the  reputation  of  a  travelled  man.  Having  persuaded  his 
mother  to  advance  a  capital  for  him  by  selling  out  the  bank  stock 
in  which  Mr.  Morgan  had  funded  her  little  fortune,  at  twenty-four 
years  of  age  he  entered  business  for  himself  as  a  French  importer. 
Leaving  a  partner  to  attend  to  the  sales  at  home,  he  went  abroad 
for  the  selection  of  goods,  and  the  further  enhancement  of  his 
social  reputation.  He  returned  in  two  years  with  a  fashionable 
figure,  a  most  recherche  style  of  dress,  moustachios  of  the  most 
approved  cut,  and  whiskers  of  faultless  curl — a  finished  gentle 
man  in  his  own  conceit.  With  such  attractions,  the  prestige  which 
he  derived  from  his  reported  travels  and  long  residence  abroad, 
and  the  savoirfaire  of  one  who  had  made  the  conventional  arrange 
ments  of  society  his  study,  he  quickly  rose  to  the  summit  of  his 
wishes,  to  the  point  which  it  had  been  his  life's  ambition  to  attain. 
He  became  the  umpire  of  taste,  and  his  word  was  received  as  the 
fiat  of  fashion.  He  continued  to  reside  with  his  mother,  and  paid 
great  attention  to  her  style  of  dress,  and  the  arrangements  of  her 


42  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

house,  for  it  was  important  that  his  mother  should  appear  prop 
erly.  Poor  Mrs.  Manning!  she  sometimes  thought  that  proud 
title  dearly  purchased  by  listening  to  his  daily  criticisms  on  ap 
pearance,  language,  manners,  which  had  been  esteemed  stylish 
enough  in  their  day. 

George  Manning  had  visited  his  mother  but  once  since  he  left 
her  with  all  the  bright  imaginings  and  boundless  confidence  of 
fourteen,  and  then  Henry  was  in  Europe.  It  was  during  the  first 
winter  after  his  return,  and  when  the  brothers  had  been  separated 
for  nearly  twelve  years,  that  Mrs.  Manning  informed  him  she  had 
received  a  letter  from  George,  announcing  his  intention  to  be  in 
New- York  in  December,  and  to  remain  with  them  through  most 
if  not  all  of  the  winter.  Henry  Manning  was  evidently  annoyed 
at  the  announcement. 

"I  wish,"  he  said,  "that  George  had  chosen  to  make  his  visit 
in  the  summer,  when  most  of  the  people  to  whom  I  should  hesi 
tate  to  introduce  him  would  have  been  absent.  I  should  be  sorry 
to  hurt  his  feelings,  but  really,  to  introduce  a  Western  farmer  into 
polished  society — "  Henry  Manning  shuddered,  and  was  silent. 
"  And  then  to  choose  this  winter  of  all  winters  for  his  visit,  and 
to  come  in  December,  just  at  the  very  time  that  I  heard  yesterday 
Miss  Harcourt  was  coming  from  Washington  to  spend  a  few  weeks 
with  her  friend,  Mrs.  Dufneld  1" 

"  And  what  has  Miss  Harcourt's  visit  to  Mrs.  Duffield  to  do 
with  George's  visit  to  us?"  asked  Mrs.  Manning. 

"  A  great  deal — at  least  it  has  a  great  deal  to  do  with  my 
regret  that  he  should  come  just  now.  I  told  you  how  I  became 
acquainted  with  Emma  Harcourt  in  Europe,  and  what  a  splendid 
creature  she  is.  Even  in  Paris,  she  bore  the  palm  for  wit  and 
beauty — and  fashion  too — that  is  in  English  and  American  society. 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  43 

But  I  did  not  tell  you  that  she  received  me  with  such  distinguish 
ing  favor,  and  evinced  so  much  pretty  consciousness  at  my  atten 
tions,  that,  had  not  her  father,  having  been  chosen  one  of  the 
electors  of  President  and  Vice  President,  hurried  from  Paris  in 
order  to  be  in  this  country  in  time  for  his  vote,  I  should  probably 
have  been  induced  to  marry  her.  Her  father  is  in  Congress  this 
year,  and  you  see,  she  no  sooner  learns  that  I  am  here,  than  she 
comes  to  spend  part  of  the  winter  with  a  friend  in  New  York." 

Henry  rose  at  this,  walked  to  a  glass,  surveyed  his  elegant 
figure,  and  continuing  to  cast  occasional  glances  at  it  as  he  walked 
backwards  and  forwards  through  the  room,  resumed  the  conver 
sation,  or  rather  his  own  communication. 

"  All  this  is  very  encouraging,  doubtless ;  but  Emma  Harcourt 
is  so  perfectly  elegant,  so  thoroughly  refined,  that  I  dread  the 
effect  upon  her  of  any  outre  association — by  the  by,  mother,  if  I 
obtain  her  permission  to  introduce  you  to  her,  you  will  not  wear 
that  brown  hat  in  visiting  her — a  brown  hat  is  my  aversion — it  is 
positively  vulgar — but  to  return  to  George — how  can  I  introduce 
him,  with  his  rough,  boisterous,  Western  manner,  to  this  courtly 
lady  ? — the  very  thought  chills  me" — and  Henry  Manning  shiv 
ered — "and  yet,  how  can  I  avoid  it,  if  we  should  be  engaged?" 

With  December  came  the  beautiful  Emma  Harcourt.,  and  Mrs. 
Duffield's  house  was  thronged  with  her  admirers.  Hers  was  the 
form  and  movement  of  the  Huntress  Queen  rather  than  of  one 
trained  in  the  halls  of  fashion.  There  was  a  joyous  freedom  in 
her  air,  her  step,  her  glance,  which,  had  she  been  less  beautiful, 
less  talented,  less  fortunate  in  social  position  or  in  wealth,  would 
have  placed  her  under  the  ban  of  fashion ;  but,  as  it  was,  she 
commanded  fashion,  and  even  Henry  Manning,  the  very  slave  of 
conventionalism,  had  no  criticism  for  her.  He  had  been  among 


44  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

the  first  to  call  on  her,  and  the  blush  that  flitted  across  her  cheek, 
the  smile  that  played  upon  her  lips,  as  he  was  announced,  might 
well  have  flattered  one  even  of  less  vanity. 

The  very  next  day,  before  Henry  had  had  time  to  improve 
these  symptoms  in  his  favor,  on  returning  home,  at  five  o'clock, 
to  his  dinner,  he  found  a  stranger  in  the  parlor  with  his  mother. 
The  gentleman  rose  on  his  entrance,  and  he  had  scarcely  time  to 
glance  at  the  tall,  manly  form,  the  lofty  air,  the  commanding 
brow,  ere  he  found  himself  clasped  in  his  arms,  with  the  excla 
mation,  "  Dear  Henry !  how  rejoiced  I  am  to  see  you  again." 

In  George  Manning  the  physical  and  intellectual  man  had 
been  developed  in  rare  harmony.  He  was  taller  and  larger  every 
way  than  his  brother  Henry,  and  the  self-reliance  which  the  latter 
had  laboriously  attained  from  the  mastery  of  all  conventional 
rules,  was  his  by  virtue  of  a  courageous  soul,  which  held  itself 
above  all  rules  but  those  prescribed  by  its  own  high  sense  of  the 
right.  There  was  a  singular  contrast,  rendered  yet  more  striking 
by  some  points  of  resemblance,  between  the  pupil  of  society,  and 
the  child  of  the  forest — between  the  Parisian  elegance  of  Henry, 
and  the  proud,  free  grace  of  George.  His  were  the  step  and  bear 
ing  which  we  have  seen  in  an  Indian  chief;  but  thought  had  left 
its  impress  on  his  brow,  and  there  was  in  his  countenance  that 
indescribable  air  of  refinement  which  marks  a  polished  mind.  In 
a  very  few  minutes  Henry  became  reconciled  to  his  brother's 
arrival,  and  satisfied  with  him  in  all  respects  but  one — his  dress. 
This  was  of  the  finest  cloth,  but  made  into  large,  loose  trowsers, 
and  a  species  of  hunting-shirt,  trimmed  with  fur,  belted  around 
the  waist,  and  descending  to  the  knee,  instead  of  the  tight  panta 
loons  and  closely  fitting  body  coat  prescribed  by  fashion.  The 
little  party  lingered  long  over  the  table — it  was  seven  o'clock 
before  they  arose  from  it. 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  45 

"Dear  mother,"  said  George  Manning,  "I  am  sorry  to  leave 
you  this  evening,  but  I  will  make  you  rich  amends  to-morrow  by 
introducing  to  you  the  friend  I  am  going  to  visit,  if  you  will  per 
mit  me.  Henry,  it  is  so  long  since  I  was  in  New  York  that  I 
need  some  direction  in  finding  my  way — must  I  turn  up  or  down 
Broadway  for  Number  — ,  in  going  from  this  street  ?" 

"Number — ,"  exclaimed  Henry  in  surprise;  "you  must  be 
mistaken — that  is  Mrs.  Duffield's." 

"  Then  I  am  quite  right,  for  it  is  at  Mrs.  Duffield's  that  I  ex 
pect  to  meet  my  friend  this  evening." 

With  some  curiosity  to  know  what  friend  of  George  could 
have  so  completely  the  entree  of  the  fashionable  Mrs.  Duffield's 
house  as  to  make  an  appointment  there,  Henry  proposed  to  go 
with  him  and  show  him  the  way.  There  was  a  momentary  hesi 
tation  in  George's  manner  before  he  replied,  "  Very  well,  I  will 
be  obliged  to  you." 

"  But — excuse  me  George — you  are  not  surely  going  in  that 
dress — this  is  one  of  Mrs.  Duffield's  reception  evenings,  and,  early 
as  it  is,  you  will  find  company  there." 

George  laughed  as  he  replied ;  "  They  must  take  me  as  I  am, 
Henry.  We  do  not  receive  our  fashions  from  Paris  at  the 
West." 

Henry  almost  repented  his  offer  to  accompany  his  brother ; 
but  it  was  too  late  to  withdraw,  for  George,  unconscious  of  this 
feeling,  had  taken  his  cloak  and  cap  and  was  awaiting  his  escort. 
As  they  approached  Mrs.  Duffield's  house,  George,  who  had 
hitherto  led  the  conversation,  became  silent,  or  answered  his 
brother  only  in  monosyllables,  and  then  not  always  to  the  pur 
pose.  As  they  entered  the  hall,  the  hats  and  cloaks  displayed 
there  showed  that,  as  Henry  supposed,  they  were  not  the  earliest 


46  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

visitors.  George  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  "You 
must  go  in  without  me,  Henry.  Show  me  to  a  room  where  there 
is  no  company,"  he  continued,  turning  to  a  servant — "  and  take 
this  card  in  to  Mrs.  Duffield — be  sure  to  give  it  to  Mrs.  Duffield 
herself." 

The  servant  bowed  low  to  the  commanding  stranger;  and 
Henry,  almost  mechanically,  obeyed  his  direction,  muttering  to 
himself,  "Free  and  easy,  upon  my  honor."  He  had  scarcely 
entered  the  usual  reception-room  and  made  his  bow  to  Mrs. 
Duffield,  when  the  servant  presented  his  brother's  card.  He 
watched  her  closely,  and  saw  a  smile  playing  over  her  lips  as 
her  eyes  rested  on  it.  She  glanced  anxiously  at  Miss  Harcourt, 
and  crossing  the  room  to  a  group  in  which  she  stood,  she  drew 
her  aside.  After  a  few  whispered  words,  Mrs.  Duffield  placed 
the  card  in  Miss  Harcourt's  hand.  A  sudden  flash  of  joy  irra 
diated  every  feature  of  her  beautiful  face,  and  Henry  Manning 
saw  that,  but  for  Mrs.  Duffield's  restraining  hand,  she  would 
have  rushed  from  the  room.  Recalled  thus  to  a  recollection 
of  others,  she  looked  around  her,  and  her  eyes  met  his.  In  an 
instant,  her  face  was  covered  with  blushes,  and  she  drew  back 
with  embarrassed  consciousness, — almost  immediately,  however, 
she  raised  her  head  with  a  proud,  bright  expression,  and  though 
she  did  not  look  at  Henry  Manning,  he  felt  that  she  was  con 
scious  of  his  observation,  as  she  passed  with  a  composed  yet 
joyous  step  from  the  room. 

Henry  Manning  was  awaking  from  a  dream.  It  was  not  a 
very  pleasant  awakening,  but  as  his  vanity  rather  than  his 
heart  was  touched,  he  was  able  to  conceal  his  chagrin,  and 
appear  as  interesting  and  agreeable  as  usual.  He  now  expected 
with  some  impatience  the  denouement  of  the  comedy.  An  hour 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  47 

passed  away,  and  Mrs.  Duffield's  eye  began  to  consult  the  marble 
clock  on  her  mantel-piece.  The  chime  for  another  half  hour 
rang  out ;  and  she  left  the  room  and  returned  in  a  few  minutes, 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  George  Manning. 

"Who  is  that? — What  noble-looking  man  is  that?"  were 
questions  Henry  Manning  heard  from  many — from  a  very  few 
only  the  exclamation,  "How  oddly  he  is  dressed!"  Before  the 
evening  was  over  Henry  began  to  feel  that  he  was  eclipsed  on 
his  own  theatre — that  George,  if  not  in  the  fashion,  was  yet  more 
the  fashion  than  he. 

Following  the  proud,  happy  glance  of  his  brother's  eye,  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  later,  Henry  saw  Miss  Harcourt  entering  the 
room  in  an  opposite  direction  from  that  in  which  he  had  lately 
come.  If  this  was  a  ruse  on  her  part  to  veil  the  connection  be 
tween  their  movements,  it  was  a  fruitless  caution.  None  who 
had  seen  her  before  could  fail  now  to  observe  the  softened 
character  of  her  beauty,  and  those  who  saw 

A  thousand  blushing  apparitions  start 
Into  her  face — 

whenever  his  eyes  rested  on  her,  could  scarcely  doubt  his  influ 
ence  over  her. 

The  next  morning,  George  Manning  brought  Miss  Harcourt 
to  visit  his  mother ;  and  Mrs.  Manning  rose  greatly  in  her  son 
Henry's  estimation  when  he  saw  the  affectionate  deference  evinced 
to  her  by  the  proud  beauty. 

"  How  strange  my  manner  must  have  seemed  to  you  some 
times,"  said  Miss  Harcourt  to  Henry  one  day.  "I  was  engaged 
to  George  long  before  I  met  you  in  Europe ;  and  though  I  never 


48  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

had  courage  to  mention  him  to  you,  I  wondered  a  little  that  you 
never  spoke  of  him.  I  never  doubted  for  a  moment  that  you 
were  acquainted  with  our  engagement." 

"I  do  not  even  yet  understand  where  and  how  you  and 
George  met." 

"  We  met  at  home — my  father  was  Governor  of  the  Terri 
tory — State  now — in  which  your  uncle  lives :  our  homes  were 
very  near  each  other's,  and  so  we  met  almost  daily  while  I  was 
still  a  child.  We  have  had  all  sorts  of  adventures  together ;  for 
George  was  a  great  favorite  with  my  father,  and  I  was  permitted 
to  go  with  him  any  where.  He  has  saved  my  life  twice — once 
at  the  imminent  peril  of  his  own,  when  with  the  wilfulness  of  a 
spoiled  child  I  would  ride  a  horse  which  he  told  me  I  could  not 
manage.  Oh !  you  know  not  half  his  nobleness,"  and  tears  mois 
tened  the  bright  eyes  of  the  happy  girl. 

Henry  Manning  was  touched  through  all  his  conventionalism, 
yet  the  moment  after  he  said,  " George  is  a  fine  fellow,  certainly; 
but  I  wish  you  could  persuade  him  to  dress  a  little  more  like 
other  people." 

"  I  would  not  if  I  could,"  exclaimed  Emma  Harcourt,  while 
the  blood  rushed  to  her  temples  ;  "  fashions  and  all  such  conven 
tional  regulations  are  made  for  those  who  have  no  innate  percep 
tion  of  the  right,  the  noble,  the  beautiful — not  for  such  as  he — he 
is  above  fashion." 

What  Emma  would  not  ask,  she  yet  did  not  fail  to  recognize 
as  another  proof  of  correct  judgment,  when  George  Manning  laid 
aside  his  Western  costume  and  assumed  one  less  remarkable. 

Henry  Manning  had  received  a  new  idea — that  there  are  those 
who  are  above  the  fashion.  Allied  to  this  was  another  thought, 
which  in  time  found  entrance  to  his  mind,  that  it  would  be  at 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  49 

least  as  profitable  to  devote  our  energies  to  the  acquisition  of  true 
nobility  of  soul,  pure  and  high  thought  and  refined  taste,  as  to 
the  study  of  those  conventionalisms  which  are  but  their  outer 
garment,  and  can  at  best  only  conceal  for  a  short  time  their 
absence. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

THE  next  day  was  brilliant.  Snow  had  fallen  during  the  night, 
and  the  sun,  which  rose  without  a  cloud,  was  reflected  back  from 
it  with  dazzling  brightness,  while  every  branch  and  spray  glit 
tered  in  its  casing  of  ice  as  though  it  had  been  a  huge  diamond. 
Before  we  met  at  breakfast,  the  younger  members  of  the  party  had 
decided  on  a  sleigh-ride.  Even  Col.  Donaldson,  malgre  old  age 
and  rheumatism,  found  himself  unable  to  resist  the  cheerful  morn 
ing  and  their  gay  solicitations,  and  accompanied  them.  Mrs. 
Donaldson  and  I  were  left  alone,  a  circumstance  which  did  not 
afflict  either  of  us.  Mrs.  Donaldson  was  never  at  a  loss  for  pleas 
ant  occupation  for  her  hours,  and  Annie  had  given  me  something 
to  do  in  parting. 

"  Remember,  Aunt  Nancy,  we  shall  look  to  you  for  our  en 
tertainment  this  evening ;  you  shall  be  permitted  to  choose  your 
subject.  Is  not  that  gracious?"  she  added,  with  a  laugh  at  her 
own  style  of  command,  springing  at  the  same  moment  from  the 
sleigh  in  which  Mr.  Arlington  had  already  placed  himself  at  her 
side,  and  running  up  the  steps  to  the  piazza,  where  I  stood,  that 
she  might  give  me  another  kiss,  and  satisfy  herself  that  she  had 
not  wounded  the  amour  propre  of  her  old  friend,  by  speaking  so 
much  en  reine.  I  was,  in  truth,  pleased  to  be  reminded  of  the 
demand  which  might  be  made  on  me  in  the  evening,  while  I  had 


•- 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  51 

time  to  glance  over  sketches  intended  only  for  myself,  and  ascer 
tain  if  they  contained  any  thing  likely  to  interest  others. 

A  late  dinner  re-united  us,  and  the  fatigues  of  the  morning 
having  been  repaired  by  an  hour's  rest  in  the  afternoon,  our  party 
was  more  than  usually  fresh  and  ready  for  enjoyment  when  we 
met  in  the  evening.  I  had  availed  myself  of  Annie's  permission, 
and  selected  my  subject.  It  was  a  crayon  sketch  of  a  lovely  lake 
— the  reader  has  an  engraving  of  it  on  the  opposite  page — made 
by  Philip  Oswald,  the  son  of  one  of  my  most  valued  friends.  The 
sketch  was  made  while  all  around  remained  in  the  wildness  of 
uncultivated  nature.  Since  that  day,  the  stillness  has  been  dis 
turbed  by  the  sound  of  the  axe  and  the  hammer.  Upon  the  bor 
ders  of  that  lovely  lake,  a  fair  home  has  risen,  from  which  the 
incense  of  grateful  and  loving  hearts  has  gone  up  to  the  Creator 
of  so  much  beauty.  The  associations  which  made  this  scene 
peculiarly  interesting  to  me  I  had  long  since  written  out,  and 
now  give  to  the  reader  under  the  title  of 


itifr  tor; 

OR,    HEARTS  VERSUS   DIAMONDS. 

WINTER  had  thrown  its  icy  fetters  over  the  Hudson,  and  stilled 
even  the  stormier  waves  of  the  East  Eiver,  as  the  inhabitants  of 
New  York  designate  that  portion  of  the  Harbor  which  lies  be 
tween  their  city  and  Brooklyn.  The  city  itself— its  streets — its 
houses — all  wore  the  livery  of  this  "  ruler  of  the  inverted  year" — 
while  in  many  a  garret  and  cellar  of  its  crowded  streets,  ragged 
children  huddled  together,  seeking  to  warm  their  frozen  limbs 


52  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

beneath,  the  scanty  covering  of  their  beds,  or  cowering  over  the 
few  half-dying  embers,  which  they  misnamed  a  fire.  Yet  the 
social  affections  were  not  chilled — rather  did  they  seem  to  glow 
more  warmly,  as  if  rejoicing  in  their  triumph  over  the  mighty 
conquerer  of  the  physical  world.  Christian  charity  went  forth  un 
checked  through  the  frosty  air  and  over  the  snow-clad  streets,  to 
shelter  the  houseless,  to  clothe  the  naked,  to  warm  the  freezing. 
Human  sympathies  awoke  to  new  life  the  dying  hopes  and  failing 
energies  of  man,  and  the  sleigh-bells,  ringing  out  their  joyous 
peals  through  the  day,  and  far,  far  into  the  night,  told  that  the 
young  and  fair  were  abroad,  braving  all  the  severities  of  the 
season,  in  their  eager  search  after  pleasure.  In  the  neighborhood 
of  Waverley  Place,  especially,  on  the  evening  of  the  16th  of  De 
cember,  did  this  merry  music  "  wake  the  silent  air"  to  respond  to 
the  quick  beatings  of  the  gay  young  hearts  anticipating  the  fete 
of  fetes,  the  most  brilliant  party  of  the  season,  which  was  that 
evening  to  be  given  at  the  house  of  the  ruler  of  fashion — the 
elegant  Mrs.  Bruton. 

Instead  of  introducing  our  readers  to  the  gay  assemblage  of 
this  lady's  guests,  we  will  take  them  to  the  dressing-room  of  the 
fairest  among  them,  the  beautiful,  the  gay,  the  brilliant  Caroline 
Danby.  As  the  door  of  this  inner  temple  of  beauty  opens  at  the 
touch  of  our  magic  wand,  its  inmate  is  seen  standing  before  a 
mirror,  and  her  eye  beams,  and  her  lip  is  smiling  with  anticipated 
triumph.  Does  there  seem  vanity  in  the  gaze  she  fastens  there  ? 
Look  on  that  form  of  graceful  symmetry,  on  those  large  black 
eyes  with  their  jetty  fringes,  on  the  rich  coloring  of  her  rounded 
cheeks,  and  the  dewy  freshness  of  her  red  lip,  and  you  will  forget 
to  censure.  But  see,  the  mirror  reflects  another  form — a  form  so 
slender  that  it  seems  scarce  to  have  attained  the  full  proportions 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  53 

of  womanhood,  and  a  face  whose  soft  gray  eyes  and  fair  com 
plexion,  and  hair  of  the  palest  gold,  present  a  singular  contrast  to 
the  dark  yet  glowing  beauty  beside  her.  This  is  Mary  Grayson, 
the  orphan  cousin  of  Caroline  Danby,  who  has  grown  up  in  her 
father's  house.  She  has  glided  in  with  her  usual  gentle  move 
ment,  and  light,  noiseless  step,  and  Caroline  first  perceives  her  in 
the  glass. 

"Ah,  Mary!"  she  exclaims,  "I  sent  for  you  to  put  this  dia 
mond  spray  in  my  hair ;  you  arrange  it  with  so  much  more  taste 
than  any  one  else." 

Mary  smilingly  receives  the  expensive  ornament,  and  fastens 
it  amidst  the  dark,  glossy  tresses.  At  this  moment  the  door-bell 
gives  forth  a  hasty  peal,  and  going  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  Mary 
remains  listening  till  the  door  is  opened,  and  then  comes  back  to 
say,  "  Mrs.  Oswald,  Caroline,  and  Philip." 

"  Pray,  go  down  and  entertain  them  till  I  come,  Mary" — and 
seemingly  nothing  loth,  Mary  complies  with  the  request. 

In  the  drawing-room  to  which  Mary  Grayson  directed  her 
steps  stood  a  stately  looking  lady,  who  advanced  to  meet  her  as 
she  entered,  and  kissing  her  affectionately,  asked,  "  Are  you  not 
going  with  us  this  evening  ?" 

"  No ;  my  sore  throat  has  increased,  and  the  Doctor  is  positive ; 
there  is  no  appeal  from  him,  you  know ;  I  am  very  sorry,  for  I 
wanted  to  see  some  of  Philip's  foreign  graces,"  she  said  playfully, 
as  she  turned  to  give  her  hand  to  a  gentleman  who  had  entered 
while  she  was  speaking.  He  received  it  with  the  frank  kindness 
of  a  brother,  but  before  he  could  reply  the  door  of  the  drawing- 
room  opened,  and  Caroline  Danby  appeared  within  it.  Philip 
Oswald  sprang  forward  to  greet  her,  and  from  that  moment 
seemed  forgetful  that  there  was  any  other  thing  in  life  deserving 


54  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

his  attention,  save  her  radiant  beauty.  Perhaps  there  was  some 
little  regard  to  the  effect  of  his  first  glance  at  that  beauty,  in  her 
presenting  herself  in  the  drawing-room  with  her  cloak  and  hood 
upon  her  arm,  the  diamond  sparkling  in  her  uncovered  tresses, 
and  the  soft,  rich  folds  of  her  satin  dress  and  its  flowing  lace 
draperies,  shading  without  concealing  the  graceful  outline  of  her 
form.  The  gentleman  who  gazed  so  admiringly  upon  her,  who 
wrapped  her  cloak  around  her  with  such  tender  care,  and  even 
insisted,  kneeling  gracefully  before  her,  on  fastening  himself  the 
warm,  furred  overshoes  upon  her  slender  foot,  seemed  a  fit 
attendant  at  the  shrine  of  beauty.  Philip  Oswald  had  been  but 
a  few  weeks  at  home,  after  an  absence  of  four  years  spent  in 
European  travel.  The  quality  in  his  appearance  and  manners, 
which  first  impressed  the  observer,  was  refinement — perfect  ele 
gance,  without  the  least  touch  of  coxcombry.  It  had  been  said 
of  him,  that  he  had  brought  home  the  taste  in  dress  of  a  Parisian, 
the  imaginativeness  of  a  German,  and  the  voice  and  passion  for 
music  of  an  Italian.  Few  were  admitted  to  such  intimacy  with 
him  as  to  look  into  the  deeper  qualities  of  the  mind — but  those 
who  were,  saw  there  the  sturdy  honesty  of  John  Bull,  and  the 
courageous  heart  and  independent  spirit  of  his  own  America. 
Some  of  those  who  knew  him  best,  regretted  that  the  possession 
of  a  fortune,  which  placed  him  among  the  wealthiest  in  America, 
would  most  probably  consign  him  to  a  life  of  indolence,  in  which 
his  highest  qualities  would  languish  for  want  of  exercise. 

By  nine  o'clock  Caroline  Danby's  preparations  were  com 
pleted,  and  leaning  on  one  of  Philip  Oswald's  arms,  while  the 
other  was  given  to  his  mother,  she  was  led  out,  and  placed  in  the 
most  splendid  sleigh  in  New- York,  and  wrapped  in  the  most 
costly  furs.  Philip  followed,  the  weary  coachman  touched  his 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  55 

spirited  horses  with  the  whip,  the  sleigh-bells  rang  merrily  out, 
and  Mary  Grayson  was  left  in  solitude. 

The  last  stroke  of  three  had  ceased  to  vibrate  on  the  air  when 
Caroline  Danby  again  stood  beside  her  cousin.  Mary  was  sleep 
ing,  and  a  painter  might  have  hesitated  whether  to  give  the 
palm  of  beauty  to  the  soft,  fair  face,  which  looked  so  angel-like  in 
its  placid  sleep,  or  to  that  which  bent  above  her  in  undimmed 
brilliancy. 

" Is  it  you,  Caroline?  "What  time  is  it?"  asked  Mary,  as  she 
roused  at  her  cousin's  call. 

"  Three  o'clock ;  but  wake  up,  Mary ;  I  have  something  to 
tell  you,  which  must  not  be  heard  by  sleepy  ears." 

"  How  fresh  you  look !"  exclaimed  Mary,  sitting  up  in  bed 
and  looking  at  her  cousin  admiringly.  "Who  would  believe 
you  had  been  dancing  all  night !" 

"  I  have  not  been  dancing  all  night,  nor  half  the  night." 

"  Why — what  have  you  been  doing  then  ?" 

"  Listening  to  Philip  Oswald.  Oh  Mary  !  I  am  certainly  the 
most  fortunate  woman  in  the  world.  He  is  mine  at  last — he,  the 
most  elegant,  the  most  brilliant  man  in  New- York,  and  with 
such  a  splendid  fortune.  I  was  so  happy,  so  excited,  that  I  could 
not  sleep,  and  therefore  I  woke  you  to  talk." 

"  I  am  glad  you  did,  for  I  am  almost  as  much  pleased  as  you 
can  be — such  joy  is  better  than  sleep  ; — but  all  the  bells  in  the 
city  seem  to  be  ringing — did  you  see  any  thing  of  the  fire  ?" 

"  Oh  yes !  the  whole  sky  at  the  southeast  is  glowing  from  the 
flames — the  largest  fire,  they  say,  that  has  ever  been  known  in 
the  city — but  it  is  far  enough  from  us — down  in  Wall-street — 
and  who  can  think  of  fires  with  such  joy  before  them?  Only 
think,  Mary,  with  Philip's  fortune  and  Philip's  taste,  what  an 
establishment  I  shall  have." 


56  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

"  And  what  a  mother  in  dear,  good  Mrs.  Oswald !" 

"  Yes — but  I  hope  she  will  not  want  to  live  with  US' — 
mothers-in-law,  you  know,  always  want  to  manage  every  thing 
in  their  sons'  houses." 

Thus  the  cousins  sat  talking  till  the  fire-bells  ceased  their 
monotonous  and  ominous  clang,  and  the  late  dawn  of  a  winter 
morning  reddened  the  eastern  sky.  It  was  half  past  nine  o'clock 
when  they  met  again  at  their  breakfast ;  yet  late  as  it  was,  Mr. 
Danby,  usually  a  very  early  riser,  was  not  quite  ready  for  it. 
He  had  spent  most  of  the  night  at  the  scene  of  the  fire,  and  had 
with  great  difficulty  and  labor  saved  his  valuable  stock  of  French 
goods  from  the  destroyer.  When  he  joined  his  daughter  and 
niece,  his  mind  was  still  under  the  influence  of  the  last  night's 
excitement,  and  he  could  talk  of  nothing  but  the  fire. 

"Eather  expensive  fireworks,  I  am  afraid,"  said  Caroline 
flippantly,  as  her  father  described  the  lurid  grandeur  of  the 
scene. 

"  Do  not  speak  lightly,  my  daughter,  of  that  which  must 
reduce  many  from  affluence  to  beggary.  Millions  of  property 
were  lost  last  night.  The  16th  of  December,  1835,  will  long  be 
remembered  in  the  annals  of  New-York,  I  fear." 

"  It  will  long  be  remembered  in  my  annals,"  whispered  Caro 
line  to  her  cousin,  with  a  bright  smile,  despite  her  father's 
chiding. 

"  Not  at  home  to  any  but  Mr.  Philip  Oswald,"  had  been 
Caroline  Danby 's  order  to  the  servant  this  morning;  and  thus 
when  she  was  told,  at  twelve  o'clock,  that  that  gentleman  awaited 
her  in  the  drawing-room,  she  had  heard  nothing  more  of  the  fire 
than  her  father  and  the  morning  paper  had  communicated.  As 
she  entered,  Philip  rose  to  greet  her,  but  though  he  strove  to 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  57 

smile  as  his  eyes  met  hers,  the  effort  was  vain ;  and  throwing  him 
self  back  on  the  sofa,  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hand,  as  if  to 
hide  his  pallor  and  the  convulsive  quivering  of  his  lips  from  her 
whom  he  was  reluctant  to  grieve.  Emboldened  by  her  fears, 
Caroline  advanced,  and  laying  her  hand  on  his,  exclaimed, 
u  What  is  the  matter? — Are  you  ill? — your  mother? — pray  do 
not  keep  me  in  suspense,  but  tell  me  what  has  happened." 

He  seemed  to  have  mastered  his  emotion,  from  whatever 
cause  it  had  proceeded ;  for  removing  his  hand,  he  looked  earn 
estly  upon  her,  and  drawing  her  to  a  seat  beside-  him,  said  in 
firm,  though  sad  tones,  "  That  has  happened,  Caroline,  which 
would  not  move  me  thus,  but  for  your  dear  sake — I  asked  you 
last  night  to  share  my  fortune — to-day  I  have  none  to  offer 
you." 

"  Gracious  heaven  !"  exclaimed  Caroline,  turning  as  pale  as 
he,  "  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  That  in  the  fire  of  last  night,  or  the  failures  which  the  most 
sanguine  assure  me  it  must  produce,  my  whole  fortune  is  in 
volved.  If  I  can  recover  from  the  wreck  what  will  secure  to 
my  poor  mother  the  continuance  of  her  accustomed  comforts,  it 
will  be  beyond  my  hopes :  for  me — 'the  luxuries,  the  comforts, 
the  very  necessaries  of  life  must  be  the  produce  of  my  own  exer 
tion.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  share  my  poverty,  Caroline ;  I  cannot 
be  so  selfish:  had  I  not  spoken  of  my  love  last  night,  you  should 
never  have  heard  it — though  it  had  been  like  a  burning  fire,  I 
would  have  shut  it  up  within  my  heart — but  it  is  too  late  for 
this ;  you  have  heard  it,  and  I  have  heard — the  remembrance 
brings  with  it  a  wild,  delirious  joy,  even  in  this  hour  of  dark 
ness  " — and  the  pale  face  of  Philip  Oswald  flushed,  and  his 
dimmed  eye  beamed  brightly  again  as  he  spoke:  "  I  have  heard 


58  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

your  sweet  confession  of  reciprocal  regard.  Months,  perhaps 
years  may  pass  before  I  attain  the  goal  at  which  I  last  night 
thought  myself  to  have  already  arrived — before  I  can  dare  to 
call  you  mine — but  in  our  land,  manly  determination  and  perse 
verance  ever  command  success,  and  I  fear  not  to  promise  you, 
dearest,  one  day  a  happy  home — though  not  a  splendid  one — if 
you  will  promise  me  to  share  it.  Look  on  me,  Caroline — give 
me  one  smile  to  light  me  on  my  way — with  such  a  hope  before 
me,  I  cannot  say  my  dreary  way." 

He  ceased,  yet  Caroline  neither  looked  upon  him,  nor  spoke. 
Her  cheek  had  grown  pale  at  his  words,  and  she  sat  with  down 
cast  eyes,  cold,  still,  statue-like  at  his  side.  Yet  did  not  Philip 
Oswald  doubt  her  love.  Had  not  her  eye  kindled  and  her  cheek 
flushed  at  his  whispered  vows — had  not  her  hand  rested  lovingly 
in  his,  and  her  lip  been  yielded  to  the  first  kiss  of  love — how 
then  could  he  dare  to  doubt  her  ?  She  was  grieved  for  his  sake 
—he  had  been  selfishly  abrupt  in  his  first  communication  of  his 
sorrow,  and  now  he — the  stronger — must  struggle  to  bear  and 
to  speak  cheerfully  for  her  sake.  And  with  this  feeling  he  had 
been  able  to  conclude  far  more  cheerfully  than  he  commenced. 
As  she  still  continued  silent,  he  bent  forward,  and  would  have 
pressed  his  lips  to  her  cheek,  saying,  "  Not  one  word  for  me, 
dear  one," — but  drawing  hastily  back,  Caroline  said  with  great 
effort, 

"  I  think,  Mr.  Oswald — it  seems  to  me — that — that — an  en 
gagement  must  be  a  heavy  burden  to  one  who  has  to  make  his 
own  way  in  life — I — I  should  be  sorry  to  be  a  disadvantage  to 
you." 

It  was  a  crushing  blow,  and  for  an  instant  he  sat  stunned 
into  almost  death-like  stillness  by  it : — but  he  rallied ;  he  would 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  59 

leave  no  loop  on  which  hope  or  fancy  might  hereafter  hang  a 
doubt.  "  Caroline,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  whose  change  spoke  the 
intensity  of  his  feeling,  "  do  not  speak  of  disadvantage  to  me — 
your  love  was  the  one  star  left  in  my  sky — but  that  matters  not 
— what  I  would  know  is,  whether  you  desire  that  the  record  of 
last  evening  should  be  blotted  from  the  history  of  our  lives?" 

"  I — I  think  it  had  better  be — I  am  sure  I  wish  you  well, 
Mr.  Oswald." 

It  was  well  for  her,  perhaps,  that  she  did  not  venture  to  meet 
his  eye — that  look  of  withering  scorn  could  scarce  ever  have 
vanished  from  her  memory — it  was  enough  to  hear  his  bitter 
laugh  and  the  accents  in  which  he  said,  "Thank  you,  Miss  Dauby 
— your  wishes  are  fully  reciprocated — may  you  never  know  a 
love  less  prudent  than  your  own." 

The  door  closed  on  him,  and  she  was  alone — left  to  the  com 
panionship  of  her  own  heart — evil  companionship  in  such  an 
hour  !  She  hastened  to  relate  all  that  had  passed  to  Mary,  but 
Mary  had  no  assurances  for  her — she  had  only  sympathy  for 
Philip — "  dear  Philip  " — as  she  called  him  over  and  over  again. 
"  I  think  it  would  better  become  one  so  young  as  you  are,  to 
say,  Mr.  Oswald,  Mary,"  said  Caroline,  pettishly. 

"  I  have  called  him  Philip  from  my  childhood,  Caroline, — I 
shall  not  begin  to  say  Mr.  Oswald  now."  Mary  did  not  mean  a 
reproach,  but  to  Caroline's  accusing  conscience  it  sounded  like 
one,  and  she  turned  away  indignantly.  She  soon,  however, 
sought  her  cousin  again  with  a  note  in  her  hand. 

"I  have  been  writing  to  Mrs.  Oswald,  Mary,"  she  said;  "you 
are  perhaps  too  young,  and  Mr.  Oswald  too  much  absorbed  in 
his  own  disappointment,  to  estimate  the  propriety  of  my  conduct ; 
but  she  will,  I  am  sure,  agree  with  me,  that  one  expensively 


60  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

reared  as  I  have  been,  accustomed  to  every  luxury,  and  perfectly 
ignorant  of  economy,  would  make  the  worst  possible  wife  to  a 
poor  man ;  and  she  has  so  much  influence  over  Mr.  Oswald,  that 
if  she  think  so,  she  can  soon  persuade  him  of  the  same  thing. 
"Will  you  take  my  note  to  her  ?  I  do  not  like  to  send  it  by  a 
servant — it  might  fall  into  Philip's  hands." 

Nothing  could  have  pleased  Mary  more  than  this  commission, 
for  her  affectionate  heart  was  longing  to  offer  its  sympathy  to  her 
friends.  Mrs.  Oswald  assumed  perhaps  a  little  more  than  her 
usual  stateliness  when  she  heard  her  announced,  but  it  vanished 
instantly  before  Mary's  tearful  eyes,  as  she  kissed  the  hand  that 
was  extended  to  her.  Mrs.  Oswald  folded  her  arms  around  her, 
and  Mary  sank  sobbing  upon  the  bosom  of  her  whom  she  had 
come  to  console.  And  Mrs.  Oswald  was  consoled  by  such  true 
and  tender  sympathy.  It  was  long  before  Mary  could  prevail  on 
herself  to  disturb  the  flow  of  gentler  affections  by  delivering  Car 
oline's  note.  Mrs.  Oswald  received  it  with  an  almost  contemptu 
ous  smile,  which  remained  unchanged  while  she  read.  It  was  a 
labored  effort  to  make  her  conduct  seem  a  generous  determina 
tion  not  to  obstruct  Philip's  course  in  life,  by  binding  him  to  a 
companion  so  unsuitable  to  his  present  prospects  as  herself.  In 
reply,  Mrs.  Oswald  assured  Caroline  Danby  of  her  perfect  agree 
ment  with  her  in  the  conviction  that  she  would  make  a  very  un 
suitable  wife  for  Philip  Oswald.  "  This, "  she  added,  "  was  always 
my  opinion,  though  I  was  unwilling  to  oppose  my  son's  wishes. 
I  thank  you  for  having  convinced  him  I  was  right  in  the  only 
point  on  which  we  ever  differed." 

It  cannot  be  supposed  that  this  note  was  very  pleasing  to 
Caroline  Danby ;  but,  whatever  was  her  dissatisfaction,  she  did 
not  complain,  and  probably  soon  lost  all  remembrance  of  her 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  61 

chagrin  in  the  gayeties  which  a  few  men  of  fortune  still  remained, 
amidst  the  almost  universal  ruin,  to  promote  and  to  partake. 

In  the  mean  time,  Philip  Oswald  was  experiencing  that  rest 
lessness,  that  burning  desire  to  free  himself  from  all  his  present 
associations,  to  begin,  as  it  were,  a  new  life,  which  the  first  pres 
sure  of  sorrow  so  often  arouses  in  the  ardent  spirit.  Had  not  his 
will  been  "  bound  down  by  the  iron  chain  of  necessity,"  he  would 
probably  have  returned  to  Europe,  and  wasted  his  energies  amid 
aimless  wanderings.  As  it  was,  he  chose  among  those  modes  of 
life  demanded  by  his  new  circumstances,  that  which  would  take 
him  farthest  from  New- York,  and  place  him  in  a  condition  the 
most  foreign  to  all  his  past  experience,  and  demanding  the  most 
active  and  most  incessant  exertion.  Out  of  that  which  the  fire, 
the  failure  of  Insurance  Companies  and  of  private  individuals,  had 
left  him,  remained,  after  the  purchase  of  a  liberal  annuity  for  his 
mother,  a  few  thousands  to  be  devoted  either  to  merchandise,  to 
his  support  while  pursuing  the  studies  necessary  for  the  acquire 
ment  of  a  profession,  or  to  any  mode  of  gaining  a  living,  which 
he  might  prefer  to  these.  The  very  hour  which  ascertained  this 
fact,  saw  his  resolution  taken  and  his  course  marked  out. 

"I  must  have  new  scenery  for  this  new  act  in  the  drama  of 
my  life,"  he  said  to  his  mother.  "I  must  away — away  from  all 
the  artificialities  and  trivialities  of  my  present  world,  to  the  rich 
prairies,  the  wide  streams,  the  boundless  expanse  of  the  West.  I 
go  to  make  a  new  home  for  you,  dear  mother — you  shall  be  the 
queen  of  my  kingdom." 

This  was  not  the  choice  that  would  have  pleased  an  ambi 
tious,  or  an  over-fond  mother.  The  first  would  have  preferred  a 
profession,  as  conferring  higher  social  distinction ;  the  last  would 
have  shrunk  from  seeing  one  nursed  in  the  lap  of  luxury  go  forth 


62  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

to  encounter  the  hardships  of  a  pioneer.  But  Mrs.  Oswald  pos 
sessed  an  intelligence  which  recognized  in  that  life  of  bold  adven 
ture,  and  physical  endurance,  and  persevering  labor,  that  awaited 
her  son  in  the  prosecution  of  his  plans,  the  best  school  for  the  de 
velopment  of  that  decision  and  force  of  character  which  she  had 
desired  as  the  crowning  seal  to  Philip's  intellectual  endowments, 
warm  affections,  and  just  principles,  and  holding  his  excellence 
as  the  better  part  of  her  own  happiness,  she  sanctioned  his  de 
signs,  and  did  all  in  her  power  to  promote  their  execution.  He 
waited,  therefore,  only  to  see  her  leave  the  house  whose  rent  now 
exceeded  her  whole  annual  income,  for  pleasant  rooms  in  a  board 
ing-house,  agreeably  situated,  before  he  set  out  from  New- York. 
It  is  not  our  intention  minutely  to  trace  his  course,  to  describe 
the  "local  habitation''  which  he  acquired,  or  detail  the  diffi 
culties  which  arose  in  his  progress,  the  strength  with  which  he 
combated,  or  the  means  by  which  he  overcame  them.  For  his 
course,  suffice  it  that  it  was  westward ;  for  his  habitation,  that  it 
was  on  the  slope  of  a  hill  crowned  with  the  gigantic  trees  of  that 
fertile  soil,  and  beside  a  lake,  "  a  sheet  of  silver,"  well  fitted  to  be 

"  A  mirror  and  a  bath  for  beauty's  youngest  daughters ;" 

and  that  the  house,  which  he  at  length  succeeded  in  rearing  and 
furnishing  there,  united  somewhat  of  the  refinement  of  his  past 
life  to  the  simplicity  of  his  present ;  for  his  difficulties,  we  can 
only  say,  he  met  them  and  conquered  them,  and  gained  from  each 
encounter  knowledge  and  power.  For  two  years,  letters  were  the 
only  medium  of  intercourse  between  his  mother  and  himself,  but 
those  letters  were  a  history — a  history  not  only  of  his  stirring, 
outer  life,  but  of  that  inner  life  which  yet  more  deeply  interested 
her.  Feeling  proud  herself  of  the  daring  spirit,  the  iron  will,  the 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  63 

ready  invention,  which  these  letters  displayed,  yet  prouder  of  the 
affectionate  heart,  the  true  and  generous  nature,  it  is  not  wonder 
ful  that  Mrs.  Oswald  should  have  often  read  them,  or  at  least 
parts  of  them,  to  her  constant  friend  and  very  frequent  visitor, 
Mary  Grayson.  Nor  is  it  more  strange  that  Mary,  thus  made  to 
recognize  in  the  most  pleasing  man  she  had  yet  known,  far  more 
lofty  claims  to  her  admiration,  should  have  enshrined  him  in  her 
young  and  pure  imagination  as  some  "  bright,  particular  star." 

Two  years  in  the  future !  How  almost  interminable  seems 
the  prospect  to  our  hopes  or  our  affections ! — but  let  Time  turn 
his  perspective  glass — let  us  look  at  it  in  the  past,  and  how  it 
shrinks  and  becomes  as  a  day  in  the  history  of  our  lives.  So  was 
it  with  Philip  Oswald's  two  years  of  absence,  when  he  found  him 
self,  in  the  earliest  dawn  of  the  spring  of  1838,  once  more  in 
New-York.  Yet  that  time  had  not  passed  without  leaving  traces 
of  its  passage — traces  in  the  changes  affecting  those  around  him 
— yet  deeper  traces  in  himself.  He  arrived  in  the  afternoon  of 
an  earlier  day  than  that  on  which  he  had  been  expected.  In  the 
evening  Mrs.  Oswald  persuaded  him  to  assume,  for  the  gratifica 
tion  of  her  curiosity,  the  picturesque  costume  worn  by  him  in  his 
western  home.  He  had  just  re-entered  her  room,  and  she  was 
yet  engaged  in  animated  observation  of  the  hunting-shirt,  strap 
ped  around  the  waist  with  a  belt  of  buckskin,  the  open  collar, 
and  loosely  knotted  cravat,  which,  as  the  mother's  heart  whis 
pered,  so  well  became  that  tall  and  manly  form,  when  there  was 
a  slight  tap  at  the  door,  and  before  she  could  speak,  it  opened, 
and  Mary  Grayson  stood  within  it.  She  gazed  in  silence  for  a 
moment  on  the  striking  figure  before  her,  and  her  mind  rapidly 
scanned  the  changes  which  time  and  new  modes  of  life  had  made 
in  the  Philip  Oswald  of  her  memory.  As  she  did  so,  she  acknow- 


64  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

ledged  that  the  embrowned  face  and  hands,  the  broader  and  more 
vigorous  proportions,  and  even  the  easy  freedom  of  his  dress, 
were  more  in  harmony  with  the  bold  and  independent  aspect 
which  his  character  had  assumed,  than  the  delicacy  and  elegance 
which  had  formerly  distinguished  him.  His  outer  man  was  now 
the  true  index  of  a  noble,  free,  and  energetic  spirit — a  spirit 
which,  having  conquered  itself,  was  victor  over  all — and  as  such, 
it  attracted  from  Mary  a  deeper  and  more  reverent  admiration, 
than  she  had  felt  for  him  when  adorned  with  all  the  trappings  of 
wealth  and  luxurious  refinement.  The  very  depth  of  this  senti 
ment  destroyed  the  ease  of  her  manner  towards  him,  and  as  Philip 
Oswald  took  the  hand  formerly  so  freely  offered  him,  and  heard 
from  her  lips  the  respectful  Mr.  Oswald,  instead  of  the  frank,  sis 
terly  Philip,  he  said  to  himself — "  She  looks  down  upon  the  back 
woodsman,  and  would  have  him  know  his  place."  So  much  for 
man's  boasted  penetration ! 

Notwithstanding  the  barrier  of  reserve  thus  erected  between 
them,  Philip  Oswald  could  not  but  admire  the  rare  loveliness  into 
which  Mary  Grayson's  girlish  prettiness  had  expanded,  and  again, 
and  yet  again,  while  she  was  speaking  to  his  mother,  and  could 
not  therefore  perceive  him,  he  turned  to  gaze  on  her,  fascinated 
not  by  the  finely  turned  form  or  beautiful  features,  but  by  the 
countenance  beaming  with  gentle  and  refined  intelligence.  Here 
was  none  of  the  brilliancy  which  had  dazzled  his  senses  in  Caro 
line  Danby,  but  an  expression  of  mind  and  heart  far  more  capti 
vating  to  him  who  had  entered  into  the  inner  mysteries  of  life. 

A  fortnight  was  the  limit  of  Philip  Oswald's  stay  in  the  city. 
He  had  come  not  for  his  mother,  but  for  the  house  in  which  she 
was  to  live,  and  he  carried  it  back  with  him.  "We  do  not  mean 
that  his  house,  with  all  its  conveniences  of  kitchen  and  pantry, 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  (J5 

its  elegancies  of  parlor  and  drawing-room,  and  its  decorations  of 
pillar  and  cornice  fitly  joined  together,  travelled  off  with  him  to 
the  far  West.  "We  do  not  despair  of  seeing  such  a  feat  performed 
some  day,  but  we*  believe  it  has  not  yet  been  done,  and  Philip 
Oswald,  at  least,  did  not  attempt  it ;  he  took  with  him,  however, 
all  those  useful  and  ornamental  contrivances  in  their  several  parts, 
accompanied  by  workmen  skilled  in  putting  the  whole  together. 
Again  in  his  western  home,  for  another  year,  his  head  and  his 
hands  were  fully  occupied  with  building  and  planting.  For  the 
first  two  years  of  his  forest  life,  he  had  thought  only  of  the  sub 
stantial  produce  of  the  field — the  rye,  the  barley,  the  Indian  corn, 
which  were  to  be  exchanged  for  the  "omnipotent  dollar" — but 
woman  was  coming,  and  beauty  and  grace  must  be  the  herald  of 
her  steps.  For  his  mother,  he  planted  fruits  and  flowers,  opened 
views  of  the  lake,  made  a  gravelled  walk  to  its  shore  bordered 
with  flowering  shrubs,  and  wreathed  the  woodbine,  the  honey 
suckle,  and  the  multiflora  rose  around  the  columns  of  his  piazza.. 
For  his  mother  this  was  done,  and  yet,  when  the  labors  of  the  day 
were  over,  and  he  looked  forth  upon  them  in  the  cool,  still  even 
ing  hour,  it  was  not  his  mother's  face,  but  one  younger  and  fairer 
which  peered  out  upon  him  from  the  vine-leaves,  or  with  tender 
smiles  wooed  him  to  the  lake.  Young,  fair,  and  tender  as  it  was, 
its  wooings  generally  sent  him  in  an  opposite  direction,  with  a 
sneer  at  his  own  folly,  to  stifle  his  fancies  with  a  book,  or  to  mark 
out  the  plan  of  the  morrow's  operations. 

More  than  a  year  had  passed  away  and  Philip  Oswald  was 
again  in  New- York,  just  as  spring  was  gliding  into  the  ardent 
embraces  of  summer.  This  time  he  had  come  for  his  mother, 
and  with  all  the  force  of  his  resolute  will,  he  shut  his  ears  to  the 
flattering  suggestions  of  fancy  that  a  dearer  pleasure  than  even 
5 


66  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

that  mother's  presence  might  be  won.  He  had  looked  steadily 
upon  his  lot  in  life,  and  he  accepted  it  and  determined  to  make 
the  best  of  it,  and  to  be  happy  in  it ;  yet  he  felt  that  it  was  after 
all  a  rugged  lot.  Without  considering  all  women  as  mercenary 
as  Caroline  Danby,  which  his  knowledge  of  his  mother  forbade 
him  to  do,  even  in  his  most  woman-scorning  mood,  he  yet 
doubted  whether  any  of  those  who  had  been  reared  amid  the 
refinements  of  cultivated  life  could  be  won  to  leave  them  all  for 
love  in  the  western  wilds ;  and  as  the  unrefined  could  have  no 
charms  for  him,  he  deliberately  embraced  bachelordom  as  a  part 
of  his  portion,  and,  not  without  a  sigh,  yielded  himself  to  the 
conviction  that  all  the  wealth  of  woman's  love  within  his  power 
to  attain,  was  locked  within  a  mother's  heart. 

A  fortnight  was  again  the  allotted  time  of  Philip  Oswald's 
stay ;  but  when  that  had  expired,  he  was  persuaded  to  delay  his 
departure  for  yet  another  week.  He  had  been  drawn,  by  accom 
panying  his  mother  in  her  farewell  visits,  once  more  within  the 
vortex  of  society,  and  his  manly  independence  and  energy,  his 
knowledge  of  what  was  to  his  companions  a  new  world,  and  his 
spirit-stirring  descriptions  of  its  varied  beauty  and  inexhaustible 
fertility,  made  him  more  the  fashion  than  he  had  ever  been.  He 
had  often  met  Caroline  Danby — now  Mrs.  Eandall — and  Mary 
more  than  once  delicately  turned  her  eyes  away  from  her  cousin's 
face,  lest  she  should  read  there  somewhat  of  chagrin  as  Mr.  Ean 
dall,  with  his  meaningless  face  and  dapper-looking  form — insig 
nificant  in  all  save  the  reputation  of  being  the  wealthiest  banker 
in  Wall-street,  and  possessing  the  most  elegant  house  and  furni 
ture,  the  best  appointed  equipage,  and  the  handsomest  wife  in 
the  city — stood  beside  Philip  Oswald  with 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  07 

" a  form  indeed 

Where  every  god  did  seem  to  set  his  seal, 
To  give  the  world  assurance  of  a  man," 

and  a  face  radiant  with  intelligence,  while  circled  by  an  attentive 
auditory  of  that  which  was  noblest  and  best  in  their  world,  his 
eloquent  enthusiasm  made  them  hear  the  rushing  waters,  see  the 
boundless  prairies,  and  feel  for  a  time  all  the  wild  freedom  of  the 
untamed  West.  Such  enthusiasm  was  gladly  welcomed  as  a 
breeze  in  the  still  air,  a  ruffle  in  the  stagnant  waters  of  fashion 
able  life. 

Within  two  or  three  days  of  their  intended  departure,  Mrs. 
Oswald  proposed  to  Philip  that  they  should  visit  a  friend  residing 
near  Fort  Lee,  and  invited  Mary  to  accompany  them.  Among 
the  acquaintances  whom  they  found  on  board  was  an  invalid 
lady,  who  could  not  bear  the  fresh  air  upon  deck ;  and  Mary, 
pitying  her  loneliness  and  seclusion,  remained  for  a  while  con 
versing  with  her  in  the  cabin.  Mrs.  Oswald  and  Philip  were  on 
deck,  and  near  them  was  a  young  and  giddy  girl,  to  whose  care 
a  mother  had  intrusted  a  bold,  active,  joyous  infant,  seemingly 
about  eight  months  old. 

"  That  is  a  dangerous  position  for  so  lively  a  child,"  said 
Philip  Oswald  to  the  young  nurse,  as  he  saw  her  place  him  on 
the  side  of  the  boat ;  "he  may  spring  from  your  arms  over 
board." 

With  that  foolish  tempting  of  the  danger  pointed  out  by  an 
other,  which  we  sometimes  see  even  in  women,  the  girl  removed 
her  arms  from  around  the  child,  sustaining  only  a  slight  hold  of 
its  frock.  At  this  moment,  the  flag  of  the  boat  floated  within 
view  of  the  little  fellow,  and  he  sprang  towards  it.  A  splash  in 
the  water  told  the  rest — but  even  before  that  was  heard,  Philip 


68  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

Oswald  had  dashed  off  his  boots  and  coat,  and  the  poor  child  had 
scarcely  touched  the  waves  when  he  was  beside  it  and  held  it 
encircled  in  his  arm. 

"  Oh,  Mary  !  Mr.  Oswald !  Mr.  Oswald  1"  cried  one  of  Mary's 
young  acquaintances,  rushing  into  the  cabin  with  a  face  blanched 
with  terror. 

"  "What  of  him  ?"  questioned  Mary,  starting  eagerly  forward. 

"  He  is  in  the  water.     Oh,  Mary  !  he  will  be  drowned." 

Mary  did  not  utter  a  sound,  yet  she  felt  in  that  moment  for 
the  first  time,  how  important  to  her  was  Philip  Oswald's  life. 
Tottering  towards  the  door,  she  leaned  against  it  for  a  moment 
while  all  around  grew  dark,  and  strange  sounds  were  buzzing  in 
her  ears.  The  next  instant  she  sank  into  a  chair  and  lost  her 
terrors  in  unconsciousness.  The  same  young  lady  who  had 
played  the  alarmist  to  her,  as  she  saw  the  paleness  of  death  settle 
on  Mary's  face  and  her  eyes  close,  ran  again  upon  the  deck, 
exclaiming  "  Mary  Gray  son  is  fainting, — pray  come  to  Mary 
Gray  son." 

Philip  Oswald  was  already  on  deck,  dripping  indeed,  but  un 
harmed  and  looking  nobler  than  ever,  as  he  held  the  recovered 
child  in  his  arms.  As  that  cry  "Mary  Grayson  is  fainting" 
reached  his  ears,  he  threw  the  infant  to  a  bystander,  and  has 
tened  to  the  cabin  followed  by  Mrs.  Oswald. 

"  What  has  caused  this  ?"  cried  Mrs.  Oswald  as  she  saw 
Mary  still  insensible,  supported  on  the  bosom  of  her  invalid 
friend. 

"  Miss  Ladson's  precipitation,"  said  the  invalid,  looking  not 
very  pleasantly  on  that  young  lady ;  "  she  told  her  Mr.  Oswald 
was  drowning." 

"  Well,  I  am  sure  I  thought  he  was  drowning." 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  QQ 

"If  lie  had  been,  it  would  have  been  a  pity  to  give  such  in 
formation  so  abruptly,"  said  Mrs.  Oswald,  as  she  took  off  Mary's 
bonnet  and  loosed  the  scarf  which  was  tied  around  her  neck. 

"  I  am  sure,"  exclaimed  Miss  Ladson,  anxious  only  to  secure 
herself  from  blame, — "  I  am  sure  I  did  not  suppose  Mary  would 
faint;  for  whon  her  uncle's  horse  threw  him,  and  every  body 
thought  he  was  killed,  instead  of  fainting  she  ran  out  in  the 
street,  and  did  more  for  him  than  any  body  else  could  do.  I  am 
sure  I  could  not  think  she  would  care  more  for  Mr.  Oswald's 
danger  than  for  her  own  uncle's." 

No  one  replied  to  this  insinuation ;  but  that  Philip  Oswald 
heard  it,  might  have  been  surmised  from  the  sudden  flush  that 
rose  to  his  temples,  and  from  his  closer  clasp  of  the  unconscious 
form,  which  at  his  mother's  desire  he  was  bearing  to  a  settee. 
Whether  it  was  the  water  which  oozed  from  his  saturated  gar 
ments  over  her  face  and  neck,  or  some  subtle  magnetic  fluid 
conveyed  in  that  tender  clasp,  that  aroused  her,  we  cannot  tell ; 
but  a  faint  tinge  of  color  revisited  her  cheeks  and  lips,  and  as 
Philip  laid  her  tenderly  down,  while  his  arms  were  still  around 
her,  and  his  face  was  bending  over  her,  she  opened  her  eyes. 
What  there  was  in  that  first  look  which  called  such  a  sudden 
flash  of  joy  into  Philip  Oswald's  eyes,  we  know  not;  nor  what 
were  the  whispered  words  which,  as  he  bowed  his  head  yet 
lower,  sent  a  crimson  glow  into  Mary's  pale  cheeks.  This  how 
ever  we  do  know,  that  Mrs.  Oswald  and  her  son  delayed  their 
journey  for  yet  another  week;  and  that  the  day  before  their 
departure  Philip  Oswald  stood  with  Mary  Grayson  at  his  side 
before  God's  holy  altar,  and  there,  in  the  presence  of  his  mother, 
Mr.  Danby,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Randall,  and  a  few  friends,  they  took 
those  vows  which  made  them  one  for  ever. 


70  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

Does  some  starched  prude,  or  some  lady  interested  in  the 
bride's  trousseau,  exclaim  against  such  unseemly  haste  ?  We 
have  but  one  excuse  for  them.  They  were  so  unfashionable  as 
to  prefer  the  gratification  of  a  true  affection  to  the  ceremonies 
so  dear  to  vanity,  and  to  think  more  of  the  earnest  claims  of  life 
than  of  its  gilded  pomps. 

Mr.  Danby  had  been  unable  to  pay  down  the  bride's  small 
dower  of  $8000 ;  and  when  he  called  on  his  son-in-law,  Mr.  Ran 
dall,  to  assist  him,  he  could  only  offer  to  indorse  his  note  to  Mr. 
Oswald  for  the  amount,  acknowledging  that  it  would  be  perilous 
at  that  time  to  abstract  even  half  that  amount  from  his  business. 
It  probably  would  have  been  perilous  indeed,  as  in  little  more 
than  a  month  after  he  failed  for  an  enormous  amount ;  but  fear 
not,  reader,  for  the  gentle  Caroline ;  she  still  retained  her  elegant 
house  and  furniture,  her  handsome  equipage  and  splendid  jewels. 
These  were  only  a  small  part  of  what  the  indignant  creditors 
found  had  been  made  over  to  her  by  her  grateful  husband. 

Six  years  have  passed  away  since  the  occurrence  of  the  events 
we  have  been  recording.  Caroline  Randall,  weary  of  the  same 
ness  of  splendor  in  her  home,  has  been  abroad  for  two  years,  trav 
elling  with  a  party  of  friends.  It  is  said — convenient  phrase  that 
— that  her  husband  has  declared  she  must  and  shall  return,  and 
that  to  enforce  his  will  he  has  resolved  to  send  her  no  more 
remittances,  to  honor  no  more  of  her  drafts,  as  she  has  already 
almost  beggared  him  by  her  extravagance  abroad.  Verily,  she 
has  her  reward ! 

One  farewell  glance  at  our  favorite,  Mary  Grayson,  and  we 
have  done. 

Beside  a  lovely  lake,  over  whose  margin  light  graceful  shrubs 
are  bending,  and  on  whose  transparent  waters  lie  the  dense 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  71 

forest  shadows,  though  here  and  there  the  golden  rays  of  the  de 
clining  sun  flash  through  the  tangled  boughs  upon  its  dancing 
waves,  a  noble-looking  boy  of  four  years  old  is  sailing  his  mimic 
fleet,  while  a  lovely  girl,  two  years  younger,  toddles  about,  pick 
ing  "pitty  flowers,"  and  bringing  them  to  "papa,  mamma,  or 
grandmamma,"  as  her  capricious  fancy  prompts.  Near  by,  papa, 
mamma,  grandmamma,  and  one  pleased  and  honored  guest,  are 
grouped  beneath  the  bending  boughs  of  a  magnificent  black 
walnut,  and  around  a  table  on  which  strawberries  and  cream, 
butter  sweet  as  the  breath  of  the  cows  that  yielded  it,  biscuits 
light  and  white,  and  bread  as  good  as  Humbert  himself  could 
make,  are  served  in  a  style  of  elegant  simplicity,  while  the  silver 
urn  in  which  the  water  hisses,  and  the  small  china  cups  into  which 
the  fragrant  tea  is  poured,  if  they  are  somewhat  antique  in  fashion, 
are  none  the  less  beautiful  or  the  less  valued  by  those  who  still 
prize  the  slightest  object  associated  with  the  affections  beyond 
the  gratification  of  the  vanity. 

The  evening  meal  is  over.  The  shadows  grow  darker  on  the 
lake.  Agreeable  conversation  has  given  place  to  silent  enjoy 
ment,  which  Mrs.  Oswald  interrupts  to  say,  "  Philip,  this  is  the 
hour  for  music ;  let  us  have  some  before  Mary  leaves  us  with  the 
children." 

Full,  deep-toned  was  the  manly  voice  that  swelled  upon  that 
evening  air,  and  soft  and  clear  its  sweet  accompaniment,  while 
the  words,  full  of  adoring  gratitude  and  love,  seemed  incense  due 
to  the  Heaven  which  had  so  blessed  them. 

The  last  sweet  notes  have  died  away,  and  Mary,  calling  the 
children,  leads  them  away,  after  they  have  bestowed  their  good 
night  kisses.  Philip  Oswald  follows  her  with  his  eyes,  as,  with  a 
child  on  either  hand,  she  advances  with  gentle  grace  up  the  easy 


72  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

slope,  to  the  house  on  its  summit.  She  enters  the  piazza,  and  is 
screened  from  his  view  by  its  lattice-work  of  vines,  but  he  knows 
that  soon  his  children  will  be  lisping  their  evening  prayer  at  her 
knee,  and  the  thought  calls  a  tenderer  expression  to  his  eyes  as 
he  turns  them  away  from  his  "  sweet  home." 

Contrast  this  picture  with  that  of  Caroline  Randall's  heartless 
splendor,  and  say  whether  thou  wilt  choose  for  thy  portion  the 
gratification  of  the  true  and  pure  household  affections  which 
Heaven  has  planted  in  thy  nature,  or  that  of  a  selfish  vanity  ? 


CHAPTER  V. 

THIS  morning,  as  I  sat  in  the  library  writing  a  letter,  Annie  came 
in  and  seated  herself  at  a  table  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  ro*om. 
Her  unusual  stillness  caused  me  to  look  up  after  some  minutes, 
and  I  found  that  Mr.  Arlington's  portfolio  having  been  left  upon 
the  table,  she  had  drawn  from  it  one  of  his  pencillings,  and  was 
gazing  steadfastly  upon  it,  as  I  could  not  but  think,  with  some 
thing  troubled  in  the  expression  of  her  usually  open  and  cheer 
ful  face.  "While  I  was  still  observing  her,  the  door  behind  her 
opened,  and  Mr.  Arlington  himself  entered.  A  blush  rose  to 
Annie's  cheeks  as  she  saw  him ;  a  blush  which  had  its  origin,  I 
thought,  in  some  deeper  feeling  than  a  mere  girlish  shame  at 
being  found  so  engrossed  by  one  of  his  productions. 

"What  have  you  there?"  he  asked,  as  seating  himself  beside 
her,  he  took  the  paper  from  what  seemed  to  me  her  somewhat 
reluctant  hand.  No  sooner  had  he  looked  on  it,  than  his  own 
bright  face  became  shadowed,  as  hers  had  been,  and  yet  he  smiled, 
too,  as  he  said,  "  That  portfolio  is  really  an  omnium  gatherum. 
I  had  no  idea  this  had  found  its  way  there.  When  I  first  read 
Mrs.  Hemans's  poem  of  '  The  Bird's  Kelease,'  it  reminded  me  of 
this  scene  of  my  boyhood,  though  if  I  have  never  spoken  to  you 
of  my  darling  Grace,  you  will  not  be  able  to  understand  why." 

"  You  never  have,"  said  Annie,  answering  his  looks  rather 


74  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

than  his  words,  while  a  slight  increase  of  color  was  again  percep 
tible  in  her  fair  cheek. 

"  She  was  my  sister,  my  only  sister ;  we  were  but  two,  the 
petted  darlings  of  a  widowed  mother.  I  told  you,  that  few  could 
sympathize  as  I  could,  with  Korner's  memory  of  Mother-love.  I 
was  but  six  years  old,  and  just  such  a  chubby,  broad-shouldered 
little  varlet,  I  fancy,  as  I  have  sketched  here,  when  Grace,  who 
was  two  years  older,  and  the  loveliest,  merriest  little  creature  in 
the  world,  died.  My  mother  was  already  beginning  to  feel  the 
influence  of  that  disease,  which,  two  years  later,  terminated  her 
life,  and,  I  have  no  doubt,  the  death  of  Grace,  who  was  her  idol, 
increased  the  rapidity  of  its  progress." 

There  was  silence  for  some  minutes,  and  then  Annie  said 
softly,  "But  what  of  the  bird?" 

"  It  was  a  thrush  which  had  been  given  to  Grace  some  time 
before  her  death,  and  which  she  was  trying  to  tame  for  me.  My 
mother  could  not  bear  to  see  it  after  her  death,  and  with  some 
difficulty  persuaded  me  to  give  it  its  liberty.  You  will  now  see 
why  I  should  have  dedicated  this  sketch  to  Grace,  and  why  these 
lines  should  have  brought  the  scene  to  my  mind,  and  caused  me 
indeed  to  make  this  draw  ing  of  it." 

"Will  you  read  the  lines  for  me?"  asked  Annie,  "I  had  not 
finished  them  when  you  took  the  paper  from  me." 

To  tell  you  a  secret,  reader,  I  do  not  believe  she  had  seen  any 
thing  on  the  paper  except  the  few  words  in  German  text,  written 
at  its  head,  "  To  my  darling  Grace." 

Mr.  Arlington  read  in  a  tone  of  feeling  and  interest, 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  75 


BY    MRS.    HEMANS. 

Go  forth,  for  she  is  gone ! 
With  the  golden  light  of  her  wavy  hair, 
She  is  gone  to  the  fields  of  the  viewless  air ; 

She  hath  left  her  dwelling  lone ! 

Her  voice  hath  passed  away ! 
It  hath  passed  away  like  a  summer  breeze, 
When  it  leaves  the  hills  for  the  far  blue  seas, 

Where  we  may  not  trace  its  way. 

Go  forth,  and  like  her  be  free ! 
With  thy  radiant  wing,  and  thy  glancing  eye, 
Thou  hast  all  the  range  of  the  sunny  sky, 

And  what  is  our  grief  to  thee  ? 

Is  it  aught  even  to  her  we  mourn  ? 
Doth  she  look  on  the  tears  by  her  kindred  shed  ? 
Doth  she  rest  with  the  flowers  o'er  her  gentle  head 

Or  float  on  the  light  wind  borne  ? 

We  know  not — but  she  is  gone ! 
Her  step  from  the  dance,  her  voice  from  the  song, 
And  the  smile  of  her  eye  from  the  festal  throng; 

She  hath  left  her  dwelling  lone ! 

When  the  waves  at  sunset  shine, 
We  may  hear  thy  voice  amidst  thousands  more, 
In  the  scented  woods  of  our  glowing  shore ; 

But  we  shall  not  know  'tis  thine ! 


76  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

Even  so  with  the  loved  one  flown ! 
Her  smile  in  the  starlight  may  wander  by, 
Her  breath  may  be  near  in  the  wind's  low  sigh, 

Around  us — but  all  unknown. 

Go  forth,  we  have  loosed  thy  chains! 
We  may  deck  thy  cage  with  the  richest  flowers 
Which  the  bright  day  rears  in  our  eastern  bowers; 

But  thou  wilt  not  be  lured  again. 

Even  thus  may  the  summer  pour, 
All  fragrant  things  on  the  land's  green  breast, 
And  the  glorious  earth  like  a  bride  be  dressed, 

But  it  wins  her  back  no  more ! 

I  was  doubtful  whether  either  Mr.  Arlington  or  Annie  were 
aware  of  my  presence,  and  was  just  debating  with  myself  whether 
I  should  make  them  aware  of  it  by  addressing  them,  or  quietly 
steal  away,  when  Col.  Donaldson  decided  the  point  by  entering 
the  library  and  speaking  to  me.  He  came  to  ask  that  I  would 
come  to  the  parlor  and  see  a  boy  who  had  just  been  sent  to 
him  from  one  of  our  charitable  institutions,  to  which  he  had 
applied  for  a  lad  to  act  as  a  helper  to  his  old  waiter,  John,  who 
was  now  old  enough  to  require  some  indulgence,  and  had  always 
been  trustworthy  enough  to  deserve  some.  The  boy  looked  in 
telligent  and  honest — he  was  neat  in  his  person  and  active  in  his 
movements. 

"  He  is  an  orphan,"  said  Col.  Donaldson,  "  and  the  managers 
of  the  institution  have  offered  to  bind  him  to  me  for  seven  years, 
or  till  he  is  of  age.  What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"  If  the  boy  himself  is  willing,  I  should  be  glad  to  know  he 
was  so  well  provided  for,"  I  replied ;  "  though,  in  general,  no 
abolitionist  can  be  more  vehemently  opposed  to  negro  slavery 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  77 

than  I  am  to  this  apprenticeship  business.  What  is  it  but  a 
slavery  of  the  worst  description.  The  master  is  endowed  with 
irresponsible  power  without  the  interest  in  the  well-being  of  his 
slave,  which  the  planter,  the  actual  owner  of  slaves,  ordinarily 
feels." 

"You  speak  strongly,"  said  Col.  Donaldson. 

"I  feel  strongly  on  this  subject,"  I  answered.  "I  knew  one 
instance  of  the  effects  of  this  system  which  I  have  often  thought 
of  publishing  to  the  world,  as  speaking  more  powerfully  against 
it  than  a  thousand  addresses  could  do." 

"  Tell  it  to  us,  Aunt  Nancy,"  said  Eobert  Dudley. 

"  It  is  too  long  to  tell  now,"  said  I,  as  the  dinner-bell  sounded. 

"  Then  let  us  have  it  this  evening,"  urged  Col.  Donaldson — 
"  for  it  is  a  subject  in  which  I  am  much  interested." 

Accordingly,  in  the  evening,  I  gave  them  the  "o'er  true 
tale"  of 


"Iisr  the  blue  summer  ocean,  far  off  and  alone,"  lies  a  little 
island,  known  to  mariners  in  the  Pacific  only  for  the  fine  water 
with  which  it  supplies  them,  and  for  the  bold  shore  which  makes 
it  possible  for  ships  of  considerable  tonnage  to  lie  in  quiet  near 
the  land.  Discovered  at  first  by  accident,  it  has  been  long,  for 
these  reasons,  visited  both  by  English  and  American  whalers. 
A  few  years  since,  and  no  trace  of  man's  presence  could  be  found 
there  beyond  the  belt  of  rocks,  amid  which  rose  the  springs  that 
were  the  chief,  and  indeed  only  attraction  the  island  presented  to 
the  rough,  hardy  men  who  had  visited  it.  But  within  that  stony 


78  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

girdle  lay  a  landscape  soft  and  lovely  as  any  that  rose  within  the 
tropical  seas.  There  the  plantain  waved  its  leafy  crown,  the 
orange  shed  its  rich  perfume,  and  bore  its  golden  fruit  aloft  upon 
the  desert  air,  and  the  light,  feathery  foliage  of  the  tamarind 
moved  gracefully  to  the  touch  of  the  dallying  breeze.  All 
was  green  and  soft  and  fair,  for  there  no  winter  chills  the  life  of 
nature,  but, 

"  The  bee  banquets  on  through  a  whole  year  of  flowers." 

It  was  a  scene  which  might  have  seemed  created  for  the  abode 
of  some  being  too  bright  and  good  for  the  common  earth  of  com 
mon  men,  or  for  some  Hinda  and  Hafed,  who,  driven  from  a 
world  all  too  harsh  and  evil  for  their  nobler  natures,  might  have 
found  in  it  a  refuge, 

"  Where  the  bright  eyes  of  angels  only 
Should  come  around  them  to  behold 
A  Paradise  so  pure  and  lonely." 

Alas  for  the  dream  of  the  poet !  This  beautiful  island  be 
came  the  refuge  not  of  pure  and  loving  hearts,  but  of  one  from 
whose  nature  cruel  tyranny  seemed  to  have  blotted  out  every 
feeling  and  every  faculty  save  hatred  and  fear ;  and  he  who  first 
introduced  into  its  yet  untainted  solitudes  the  bitter  sorrows  and 
dark  passions  of  humanity,  was  a  child,  who,  but  ten  years 
before,  had  lain  in  all  the  loveliness  of  sinless  infancy  upon  a 
mother's  bosom.  Of  that  mother's  history  he  knew  nothing — 
whether  her  sin  or  only  her  sorrows  had  thrown  him  fatherless 
upon  the  world,  he  was  ignorant — he  only  had  a  dim  memory  of 
gentle  eyes,  which  had  looked  on  him  as  no  others  had  ever  done, 
and  of  a  low,  sweet  voice  speaking  to  him  such  words  as  he  had 
never  heard  from  any  other.  He  had  been  loved,  and  that  love 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  79 

had  made  his  life  of  penury,  in  a  humble  hovel  in  England, 
bright  and  beautiful ;  but  his  mother  had  passed  away  from  earth, 
and  with  her  all  the  light  of  his  existence.  Child  as  he  was,  the 
succeeding  darkness  preserved  long  in  brightness  the  memory  of 
the  last  look  from  her  fast  glazing  eyes,  the  last  words  from  her 
dying  lips,  the  last  touch  of  her  already  death-cold  hand.  She 
died,  and  the  same  reluctant  charity  which  consigned  her  to  a 
pauper's  grave,  gave  to  her  boy  a  dwelling  in  the  parish  poor- 
house.  With  the  tender  mercies  of  such  institutions  the  author 
of  Oliver  Twist  has  made  the  world  acquainted.  They  were  such 
in  the  present  case,  that  the  poor  little  Edward  Hallett  welcomed 
as  the  first  glad  words  that  had  fallen  on  his  ears  for  two  long, 
weary  years,  the  news  that  he  was  to  be  bound  apprentice  to  a 
captain  sailing  from  Portsmouth  in  a  whaling  ship.  He  learned 
rather  from  what  was  said  near  him,  than  to  him,  that  this  man 
wanted  a  cabin  boy,  but  would  not  have  one  who  was  not  bound 
to  him,  or  to  use  the  more  expressive  language  in  which  it  reached 
the  ears  of  his  destined  victim,  "  one  with  whom  he  could  not  do 
as  he  pleased." 

He  who  had  come  within  the  poor-house  walls  at  six  years  old, 
a  glad,  rosy-cheeked,  chubby  child,  went  from  them  at  eight,  thin, 
and  pale,  and  grave,  with  a  frame  broken  by  want  and  labor,  a 
mind  clouded,  and  a  heart  repressed  by  unkindness.  But,  sad  as 
was  the  history  of  those  years,  the  succeeding  two  taught  the 
poor  boy  to  regard  them  as  the  vanished  brightness  of  a  dream. 
The  man — we  should  more  justly  say,  the  fiend — to  whom  the 
next  fourteen  years  of  his  life  were  by  bond  devoted,  was  a  sav 
age  by  nature,  and  had  been  rendered  yet  more  brutal  by  habits 
of  intoxication.  In  his  drunken  orgies,  his  favorite  pastime  was 
to  torture  the  unfortunate  being  whom  the  "  guardians  of  the 


80  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

poor"  of  an  English  parish  had  placed  in  his  power.  It  would 
make  the  heart  of  the  reader  sick,  were  we  to  attempt  a  detail  of 
the  many  horrible  inventions  by  which  this  modern  Caligula 
amused  his  leisure  hours,  and  made  life  hideous  to  his  victim. 
Nor  was  it  only  from  this  arch  fiend  that  the  poor  boy  suffered. 
Mate,  cook,  and  sailors,  soon  found  in  him  a  butt  for  their  jokes, 
an  object  on  which  they  might  safely  vent  their  ill-humor,  and  a 
convenient  cover  for  their  own  delinquencies. 

He  was  beaten  for  and  by  them.  The  evil  qualities  which 
man  had  himself  elicited  from  his  nature,  if  not  implanted  there 
— the  sullenness,  and  hardiness,  and  cunning  he  evinced,  were 
made  an  excuse  for  further  injury.  During  his  first  voyage  of 
eighteen  months,  spite  of  all  this,  hope  was  not  entirely  dead  in 
his  heart.  The  ship  was  to  return  to  England,  and  he  determined 
to  run  away  from  her,  and  find  his  way  back  to  the  poor-house. 
It  was  a  miserable  refuge,  but  it  was  his  only  one.  He  escaped — 
he  found  his  way  there  through  many  dangers — he  told  his  story. 
It  was  heard  with  incredulity,  and  he  was  returned  to  his  tor 
mentors,  to  learn  that  there  is  even  in  hell  "  a  deeper  hell." 

Again  he  went  on  a  whaling  voyage.  Day  after  day  the  fath 
omless,  the  seemingly  illimitable  sea,  the  image  of  the  Infinite, 
was  around  him — but  his  darkened  mind  saw  in  it  only  a  prison, 
which  shut  him  in  with  his  persecutors.  Night  after  night  the 
stars  beamed  peacefully  above  him,  luring  his  thoughts  upward, 
but  he  saw  in  them  only  the  signals  of  drunken  revelry  to  others, 
and  of  deeper  woe  to  himself.  There  was  but  one  wish  in  his 
heart — it  had  almost  ceased  to  be  a  hope — to  escape  from  man ; 
to  live  and  die  where  he  should  never  see  his  form,  never  hear 
his  voice.  The  ship  encountered  a  severe  storm.  She  was  driven 
from  her  course,  her  voyage  lengthened,  and  some  of  her  water- 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  31 

casks  stove  in.  They  made  for  an  island,  not  far  distant,  by  the 
chart,  to  take  in  a  fresh  supply  of  water.  Edward  Hallett  heard 
the  sailors  say  to  each  other  that  this  island  was  uninhabited,  and 
his  wish  grew  into  a  passionate  desire — a  hope.  For  the  comple 
tion  of  this  hope,  he  had  but  one  resource — the  sword  and  the 
shield  of  the  feeble — cunning ;  and  well  he  exercised  it. 

The  ship  lay  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  shore,  and  a 
boat  was  sent  up  to  procure  water — one  man  remaining  always, 
to  fill  the  empty  vessels,  while  the  others  returned  to  the  ship 
with  those  already  filled.  The  best  means  of  accomplishing  his 
purpose,  that  occurred  to  the  poor  boy,  was  to  feign  the  utmost 
degree  of  terror  at  the  lonely  and  unprotected  situation  of  this 
man  during  the  absence  of  his  comrades.  He  spoke  his  terrors 
where  he  knew  they  would  be  heard  by  the  prime  author  of  his 
miseries.  The  result  was  what  he  had  anticipated. 

"  Ye  're  afraid,  are  ye,  of  being  left  there  by  yerself  ?  Ye  'd 
rather  be  whipped,  or  tied  up  by  the  thumbs,  or  be  kept  at  the 
mast-head  all  night,  would  ye?  Then,  dam'me,  that's  just  what 
I  '11  do  to  you.  Here,  hold  on  with  that  boat — take  this  young 
ster  with  you,  and  you  can  bring  back  Tom,  and  leave  him  to  fill 
the  casks  for  you." 

Well  did  the  object  of  his  tyranny  act  his  part.  He  entreated, 
he  adjured  all  around  him  to  save  him  from  so  dreaded  a  fate — in 
vain,  of  course — for  his  affected  agonies  but  riveted  the  determi 
nation  of  his  tyrant.  It  was  a  new  delight  to  see  him  writhe  in 
agony,  and  strive  to  draw  back  from  those  who  were  urging  him 
to  the  boat.  He  was  forced  in,  borne  to  the  island,  and  left  to  his 
task.  But  this  was  not  enough.  He  could  not  escape  in  the 
broad  light  of  day,  from  a  spot  directly  under  the  eyes  of  his  tor 
mentors,  while  between  him  and  the  ship  a  boat  was  ever  coming 
6 


32  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

and  going.  Through  the  day  he  must  persist  in  the  part  he  had 
assumed.  He  did  not  fail  to  continue  it,  and  when  the  day  approach 
ed  its  close,  he  sent  to  the  ship  the  most  urgent  entreaties  that  he 
might  be  allowed  to  return  there  before  it  was  night.  The  sail 
ors,  rough  and  hard  as  they  generally  were  to  him,  sympathized 
with  his  agony  of  fear,  and  asked  that  he  might  return ;  but  his 
demon  was  now  inflamed  by  drink,  and  every  word  in  favor  of 
his  petition  insured  its  rejection.  He  even  made  the  unusual 
exertion  of  going  up  himself  in  the  last  boat,  that  he  might  see 
the  victim  of  his  malice,  and  feast  his  ears  with  the  cries  and 
objurgations  which  terror  would  wring  from  him. 

"  If  we  should  forget  you  in  the  morning,  you  can  take  the 
next  homeward  bound  ship  that  stops  here,  but  don't  tell  your 
friends  at  the  poor-house  too  bad  a  tale  of  us,"  were  the  parting 
words  of  this  wretch. 

Darkness  and  silence  were  around  the  desolate  boy,  but  they 
brought  no  fear  with  them.  Man,  his  enemy,  was  not  there.  He 
saw  not  the  beauty  of  the  heavens,  from  which  the  stars  looked 
down  on  him  in  their  unchanged  serenity,  or  of  the  earth,  where 
flowers  were  springing  at  his  feet,  and  graceful  shrubs  were  wa 
ving  over  him.  He  heard  not  the  deep-toned  sea  uttering  its 
solemn  music,  or  the  breeze  whispering  its  softer  notes  in  his  ear. 
He  only  saw  the  ship,  the  abode  of  men,  fading  into  indistinct 
ness,  as  the  darkness  threw  its  veil  over  it;  he  only  heard 
the  voice  in  his  heart,  proclaiming  ever  and  again,  "I  am 
free."  Before  the  morrow  dawned,  he  had  surmounted  the  rocks 
at  the  landing-place,  and  wandered  on  with  no  aim,  but  to  put  as 
great  a  distance  as  possible  between  him  and  the  ship.  Two 
hours'  walking  brought  him  again  to  the  sea,  in  an  opposite  di 
rection  to  that  by  which  he  had  approached  the  island.  Here  he 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  83 

crawled  into  a  hiding-place,  amongst  the  rocks,  and  lay  down  to 
rest.  The  day  was  again  declining  before  he  ventured  forth  from 
his  covert,  and  cautiously  approached  the  distant  shore,  from 
whence  he  might  see  the  ship.  He  reached  the  spring  by  which 
he  had  stood  yester  eve,  when  his  companions  parted  from  him, 
with  something  like  pity  stirring  in  the  hearts  of  all  but  one 
among  them.  Fearfully  he  looked  around — before  him — but  no 
shadow  on  the  earth,  no  sail  upon  the  pathless  sea,  told  of  man's 
presence.  He  was  alone — alone  indeed,  for  the  beauty  of  Nature 
roused  no  emotion  in  his  withered  heart,  and  he  held  no  commu 
nion  with  Nature's  God.  His  was  indeed  an  orphaned  soul. 
Could  he  have  loved,  had  it  been  but  a  simple  flower,  he  would 
have  felt  something  of  the  joy  of  life ;  but  the  very  power  of 
love  seemed  to  have  been  crushed  from  his  heart,  by  years  of 
cold  neglect  and  harsh  unkindness. 

Weeks,  months  passed,  without  any  event  that  might  awaken 
the  young  solitary  from  his  torpor.  By  day,  he  roved  through 
the  island,  or  lay  listlessly  under  the  shadow  of  a  tree ;  by  night, 
he  slept  beneath  the  rocks  which  had  first  sheltered  him ;  while 
the  fruits,  that  grew  and  ripened  without  his  care,  gave  him  food. 
Thus  he  lived  a  merely  animal  life,  his  strongest  sensation  one  of 
satisfaction  for  his  relief  from  positive  suffering,  but  with  nothing 
that  could  be  called  joy  in  the  present,  and  with  no  hope  for  the 
future  ;  one  to  whom  God  had  given  an  immortal  spirit,  capable 
of  infinite  elevation  in  the  scale  of  intelligence  and  happiness,  and 
whom  man  had  pressed  down  to — aye,  below  the  level  of  the 
brutes,  which  sported  away  their  brief  existence  at  his  side.  Such 
tyranny  as  he  had  experienced,  is  rare ;  but  its  results  may  well 
give  an  impressive,  a  fearful  lesson,  to  those  to  whom  are  com 
mitted  the  destinies  of  a  being  unconnected  with  them  by  any  of 


g4  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

those  ties  which  awaken  tenderness,  and  call  forth  indulgence  in 
the  sternest  minds.  Let  them  beware,  lest  the  "iron  rule"  crush 
out  the  life  of  the  young  heart,  and  darken  the  intellect  by  extin 
guishing  the  light  of  hope. 

Terrible  was  the  retribution  which  his  crimes  wrought  out  for 
the  author  of  our  young  hero's  miseries.  When  he  received  the 
intelligence  from  the  men  whom  he  had  sent  in  the  morning  to 
bring  him  from  the  island,  that  he  was  nowhere  to  be  found,  he 
read  in  their  countenances  what  his  own  heart  was  ready  to  repeat 
to  him,  that  he  was  his  murderer ;  for  neither  they  nor  he  doubted 
that  the  terrified  boy  had  rushed  into  the  sea,  and  been  drowned 
in  the  effort  to  escape  the  horrors  raised  by  his  wild  and  super 
stitious  fancy.  From  that  hour  his  persecutor  suffered  tortures  as 
great  as  his  bitterest  enemies  could  have  desired  to  inflict  on  him. 
The  images  which  drove  him  with  increased  eagerness  to  the 
bottle,  became  more  vivid  and  terrific  under  the  influence  of 
intoxication.  He  drank  deeper  and  deeper,  in  the  vain  hope  to 
banish  them,  and  died  ere  many  months  had  passed,  shouting,  in 
his  last  moments,  alternate  prayers  and  curses  to  the  imagined 
form  of  him  whom  he  supposed  the  hope  of  revenge  had  conjured 
from  the  ocean  grave  to  which  his  cruelties  had  consigned  him. 

Five  months  passed  over  Edward  Hallett,  in  the  dead  calm  of 
an  existence  agitated  by  neither  hope  nor  fear.  The  calm  was 
broken  one  evening,  by  the  sight  of  a  seaman,  drawing  water 
from  the  spring  which  had  brought  his  former  companions  to  the 
island.  As  he  came  in  sight,  the  man  turned  his  head,  and  stood 
for  an  instant,  spell-bound  by  the  unexpected  vision  of  a  human 
being  on  that  island,  whose  matted  locks  and  tattered  garments 
spoke  the  extreme  of  misery.  There  was  only  one  hope  for  the  sad, 
wild  boy — it  was  in  flight — and  turning,  he  ran  swiftly  back ;  but 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  g5 

the  path  was  strewn  with  rocks,  and,  in  his  haste,  he  stumbled 
and  fell.  In  a  moment  his  pursuer  stood  beside  him,  exclaiming, 
in  a  coarse,  but  kindly  meant  language : — 

"What  the  devil  are  you  runnin'  away  from  me  for,  young 
ster? — I'm  sure  I  wouldn't  hurt  ye — but  get  up,  and  tell  us  what 
you're  doing  here,  and  where  ye've  come  from." 

The  speaker  attempted,  while  addressing  the  boy,  to  raise  him 
from  the  ground,  but  he  resisted  all  his  efforts,  and  met  all  his 
questioning  with  sullen  silence. 

"By  the  powers,  I'm  thinking  I've  caught  a  wild  man.  I 
wonder  if  there's  any  more  of  'em.  If  I  can  only  get  this  one 
aboard,  he'll  make  my  fortune.  I'll  try  for  it,  any  how,  and  offer 
the  cap  ting  to  go  shares  with  my  bargain  ;  "  and  he  proceeded  to 
lift  the  slight  form  of  the  pauper  boy  in  his  brawny  arms,  and 
bear  him  to  the  boat,  which,  during  this  scene,  had  approached 
the  shore.  One  who  had  had  less  experience  of  the  iron  nature 
of  man,  would  have  endeavored,  in  Edward  Hallett's  circum 
stances,  to  move  his  captor,  by  entreaties,  to  leave  him  to  his 
dearly  prized  freedom ;  but  he  had  long  believed,  with  the  poet, 

"  There  is  no  pulse  in  man's  obdurate  heart — 
It  does  not  feel  for  man ; " 

and  after  the  first  wild  struggle,  which  had  only  served  to  show  that 
he  was  an  infant  in  the  hands  of  the  strong  seaman,  he  abandoned 
himself  to  his  fate,  in  silent  despair.  With  closed  eyes  and  lips, 
he  suffered  himself,  without  a  movement,  to  be  borne  to  the  boat, 
and  deposited  in  it,  amid  the  many  uncouth  and  characteristic 
exclamations  of  his  captor  and  his  companions,  who  would  not 
be  convinced  that  it  was  really  a  child  of  the  human  race,  thus 
strangely  found  on  this  isolated  spot.  Hastily  they  bore  him  to 


86  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

the  ship,  which  the  providence  of  God  had  sent,  under  the  gui 
dance  of  a  kind  and  noble  spirit,  for  the  salvation  of  this,  his 
not  forgotten,  though  long  tried  creature. 

Captain  Durbin,  of  the  barque  Good  Intent,  was  one  who 
combined,  in  an  unusual  degree,  the  qualities  of  boldness  and 
energy  with  the  kindest,  the  tenderest,  and  most  generous  feel 
ings.  These  were  wrought  into  beautiful  harmony,  by  the  Chris 
tian  principles  which  had  long  governed  his  life,  and  from  which 
he  had  learned  to  be,  at  the  same  time,  "  diligent  in  business"  and 
"kindly  affectioned" — to  have  no /ear  of  man,  and  to  love  his 
brother,  whom  he  had  seen,  as  the  best  manifestation  of 
devotion  to  God,  whom  he  had  not  seen.  Perhaps  he  had 
escaped  the  usual  effect  of  his  rough  trade,  in  hardening  the 
manners,  at  least,  by  the  influence  on  him  of  his  only  child,  a 
little  girl,  now  six  years  old,  who  was  his  constant  companion, 
even  in  his  voyages.  Little  Emily  Durbin  had  lost  her  mother 
when  she  was  only  two  years  old.  The  circumstances  of  her  own 
childhood  had  wrought  into  the  mind  of  the  dying  Mrs.  Durbin, 
the  conviction  that  only  a  parent  is  a  fitting  guardian  for  a  child. 
To  all  argument  on  this  subject  she  would  reply,  "  It  seems  to  me 
that  God  has  put  so  much  love  into  a  parent's  heart,  only  that  he 
may  bear  with  all  a  child's  waywardness,  which  other  people 
can't  be  expected  to  bear  with." 

True  to  her  principles,  she  had  exacted  a  promise  from  her 
husband,  in  her  dying  hour,  that  he  would  never  part  from  their 
Emily.  The  promise  had  been  sacredly  kept. 

"  I  will  retire  from  sea  as  soon  as  I  have  enough  to  buy  a 
place  on  shore,  for  Emily's  sake ;  but  till  then,  her  home  must  be 
in  my  cabin.  She  is  under  God's  care  there,  as  well  as  on  shore, 
and  perhaps  it  would  be  better  for  her,  if  I  am  lost  at  sea,  to  share 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  87 

my  fate,"  Captain  Durbin  would  say  to  the  well-meant  remon 
strances  of  his  friends. 

Emily  had  a  little  hammock  slung  beside  his  own — the  books 
in  which  he  taught  her  made  a  large  part  of  his  library,  and  he 
who  had  seen  her  kneel  beside  her  father  to  lisp  her  childish 
prayer,  or  who  had  heard  the  simple,  beautiful  faith  with  which 
she  commended  herself  to  the  care  of  her  Father  in  Heaven, 
when  the  waves  roared  and  the  winds  howled  around  her  float 
ing  home,  would  have  felt,  perhaps,  that  the  most  important  end 
of  life,  the  cultivation  of  those  affections  that  connect  us  with 
God  and  with  our  fellow-creatures,  might  be  attained  as  perfectly 
there  as  elsewhere. 

The  astonishment  of  Captain  Durbin  and  the  pity  of  his  gentle 
child  may  be  conceived,  at  the  sight  of  the  poor  boy,  who  was 
brought  up  from  the  boat  by  his  captor  and  owner,  as  he  consid 
ered  himself,  and  laid  at  their  feet,  while  they  sat  together  in 
their  cabin — he  writing  in  his  log-book,  and  she  conning  her 
evening  lesson.  To  the  proposition  that  he  should  give  the  prize 
so  strangely  obtained  a  free  passage,  and  share  in  the  advantages 
to  be  gained  by  its  exhibition  in  America,  Captain  Durbin  replied 
by  showing  the  disappointed  seaman  the  impossibility  of  the  object 
of  these  speculations  being  some  product  of  Nature's  freaks — 
some  hitherto  unknown  animal,  with  the  form,  but  without  the 
faculties  of  man. 

"  Do  you  not  see  that  he  has  clothes " 

"  Clothes,  do  ye  call  them  ?"  interrupted  the  blunt  sailor, 
touching  the  pieces  of  cloth  that  hung  around,  but  no  longer  cov 
ered  the  thin  limbs. 

"Rags,  perhaps  I  had  better  say — but  the  rags  have  been 
clothes,  woven  and  sewn  by  man's  hands — so  he  must  have  lived 


88  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

among  men — civilized  men — and  he  has  grown  little  as  you  may 
perceive,  since  those  clothes  were  made — therefore,  he  cannot 
have  been  long  on  the  island." 

"  But  how  did  he  get  there  ?  Who'd  leave  a  baby  like  this 
there  by  himself?" 

"  That  we  may  never  know,  for  the  boy  must  either  be  an 
idiot — which  he  does  not  look  like,  however — or  insane,  or 
dumb — but  let  that  be  as  it  will,  we  will  do  our  duty  by  him, 
and  I  thank  God  for  having  sent  us  here  in  time  to  save  him." 

The  master  of  the  ship  usually  gives  the  tone  to  those  whom 
he  commands,  and  Captain  Durbin  found  no  difficulty  in  obtain 
ing  the  help  of  his  men  in  his  kind  intentions  to  the  boy  so 
strangely  brought  amongst  them.  By  kind,  but  rough  hands,  he 
was  washed,  his  hair  was  cut  and  combed,  and  a  suit  of  clean, 
though  coarse  garments,  hastily  fitted  to  him  by  the  best  tailor 
among  them — fitted,  not  with  the  precision  of  Stultz  certainly, 
but  sufficiently  well  to  enable  him  to  walk  in  them  without 
danger  of  walking  on  them  or  of  leaving  them  behind.  But  he 
showed  no  intention  of  availing  himself  of  these  capabilities. 
Wherever  they  carried  him  he  went  without  resistance — wherever 
they  placed  him  he  remained — he  ate  the  food  that  was  offered 
him — but  no  word  escaped  his  lips,  no  voluntary  movement  was 
made  by  him,  no  look  marked  his  consciousness  of  aught  that 
passed  before  him.  lie  had  again  assumed  his  only  shield  from 
violence — cunning.  He  could  account  in  no  way  for  his  being 
left  unmolested,  except  from  the  belief,  freely  expressed  before 
him,  that  nature,  by  depriving  him  of  intelligence,  or  of  speech, 
had  unfitted  him  for  labor,  and  he  resolved  to  do  nothing  that 
should  unsettle  that  belief.  But  he  found  it  more  difficult  than 
he  had  supposed  it  would  be  to  preserve  this  resolution,  for  he 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  89 

was  subjected  to  the  action  of  a  more  potent  influence  than  any 
he  had  yet  encountered — kindness.  All  were  ready  to  show  him 
this  in  its  common  forms,  but  none  so  touchingly  or  so  tenderly 
as  the  little  Emily  Durbin.  It  was  a  beautiful  sight  to  see  that 
gentle  child,  with  eyes  blue  as  the  heavens,  whose  pure  and  lovely 
spirit  they  seemed  to  mirror,  gazing  up  at  the  dark  boy  as  if  she 
hoped  to  catch  some  ray  of  the  awakening  spirit  flitting  over  the 
handsome  but  stolid  features.  Sometimes  she  would  sit  beside 
him,  take  his  hand  in  hers,  or  stroke  gently  the  dark  locks  that 
began  again  to  hang  in  neglected  curls  around  his  face,  and  speak 
to  him  in  the  tenderest  accents,  saying,  "I  love  you  very  much, 
pretty  boy,  and  my  father  loves  you  too,  and  we  all  love  you — 
don't  you  love  us?- — but  you  can't  tell  me — I  forgot  that — never 
mind,  I'll  ask  our  Heavenly  Father  to  make  you  talk.  Don't  you 
know  Jesus  made  the  dumb  to  speak  when  he  was  here  on  earth  ? 
Did  you  ever  hear  about  it  ?  Poor  boy  !  you  can't  answer  me — 
but  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it : "  and  then  in  her  sweet  words  and 
pitying  voice  she  would  tell  of  the  Saviour  of  men — how  he  had 
made  the  deaf  to  hear  and  the  dumb  to  speak,  and  she  would 
repeat  his  lessons  of  love,  dwelling  often  on  her  favorite  text, 
"  This  is  my  commandment,  that  ye  love  one  another — even  as  I 
have  loved  you,  that  ye  also  love  one  another. " 

"  Thus,  by  this  babe,  God  was  in  his  love  leading  the  chilled 
heart  of  that  poor,  desolate  boy,  back  to  himself — to  hope — to 
Heaven.  It  was  impossible  that  the  dew  of  mercy  should  thus, 
day  by  day  and  hour  by  hour  distil  upon  a  spirit  indurated  by 
man's  cruelties,  without  softening  it.  Edward  Hallett  began  to 
love  that  sweet  child,  to  listen  to  her  step  and  voice,  to  gaze  upon 
her  fair  face,  to  return  her  loving  looks,  and  to  long  to  tell  her 
all  his  story.  Emily  became  aware  of  the  new  expression  in  his 


90  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

face,  and  redoubled  her  manifestations  of  interest.  She  entreated 
that  he  should  be  brought  in  when  her  father  read  the  Bible  and 
prayed  with  her,  night  and  morning.  "Who  knows — may  be  our 
Heavenly  Father  will  make  him  hear  us,"  was  her  simple  and 
pathetic  response  to  Captain  Durbin's  assurance  that  it  was  use 
less,  as  he  either  could  not  or  would  not  understand  them.  Never 
had  Edward  Hallett's  resolution  been  more  severely  tried  than 
when  he  saw  her  kneel,  with  clasped  hands  and  uplifted  face,  at 
her  father's  knee,  and  heard  her  pray  in  her  own  simple  words 
that  "God  would  bless  the  poor  little  dumb  boy  whom  he  had 
sent  to  them,  and  that  he  would  make  him  speak,  and  give  him  a 
good  heart,  that  he  might  love  them."  Captain  Durbin  turned  his 
eyes  upon  the  object  of  her  prayer  at  that  moment,  and  he  almost 
thought  that  his  lips  moved,  and  was  quite  certain  that  his  eyes 
glistened  with  emotion.  From  this  time  he  was  as  anxious  as  Emily 
herself  for  the  attendance  of  the  strange  boy  at  their  devotions. 

For  many  weeks  the  ship  had  sped  across  that  southern  sea 
with  light  and  favoring  breezes,  but  at  length  there  came  a  storm. 
The  heavens  were  black  with  clouds — the  wind  swept  furiously 
over  the  ocean,  and  drove  its  wild  waves  in  tremendous  masses 
against  the  reeling  ship.  Captain  Durbin  was  a  bold  sailor,  as 
we  have  said,  and  he  had  weathered  many  a  storm  in  his  trim 
barque ;  but  Emily  knew  by  the  way  in  which  he  pressed  her  to 
his  heart  this  night,  before  he  laid  her,  not  in  her  hammock,  but 
on  the  narrow  floor  of  his  state-room,  and  by  the  tone  in  which 
he  ejaculated,  "God  bless  you,  and  take  care  of  you,  my  beloved 
child !" — that  there  was  more  danger  to-night  than  they  had  ever 
before  encountered  together ;  and  as  he  was  leaving  her  she  drew 
him  back  and  said,  "  Father,  I  can't  sleep,  and  I  should  like  to 
talk  to  the  little  dumb  boy ;  won't  you  bring  him  here,  and  let 
him  sit  on  my  mattress  with  me  ?" 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  91 

Captain  Durbin  brought  Edward  Hallett  and  placed  him 
beside  Emily,  where,  by  bracing  themselves  against  the  wall  of 
the  state-room,  they  might  prevent  their  being  dashed  about  by 
the  rolling  of  the  vessel.  Emily  welcomed  him  with  an  affection 
ate  smile,  and  taking  his  hand,  which  now  sometimes  answered 
the  clasp  of  hers,  told  him  that  he  must  not  be  afraid,  though 
there  was  a  great  storm,  for  their  Father  in  Heaven  could  deliver 
them  out  of  it  if  it  were  his  will,  and  if  it  were  not,  he  would 
take  them  to  himself,  if  they  loved  him  and  loved  one  another  as 
the  blessed  Saviour  had  commanded  them.  "  And  you  know  we 
must  die  some  way,"  continued  the  sweet  young  preacher,  "and 
father  says  it  is  just  as  easy  to  go  to  Heaven  from  the  sea  as  from 
any  other  place." — She  paused  a  moment,  and  then  added  in  a 
lower  tone,  "  But  I  think  I  had  rather  die  on  shore,  and  be  buried 
by  my  mother  in  the  green,  shady  church-yard — it  is  so  quiet 
there." 

Emily  crept  nearer  and  nearer  to  her  young  companion  as  she 
spoke,  Avith  that  clinging  to  human  love  and  care  which  is  felt  by 
the  hardest  breast  in  moments  of  dread.  His  heart  was  beating 
high  with  the  tenderest  and  the  happiest  emotions  he  had  ever 
known,  when  a  wave  sweeping  over  the  deck  of  the  ship,  and 
breaking  through  the  skylight,  came  tumbling  in  upon  them.  It 
forced  them  asunder,  and  the  falling  of  their  lantern  at  the  same 
moment  left  them  in  darkness  amidst  the  tossing  of  the  ship,  the 
rolling  of  the  furniture,  and  the  noise  of  the  many  waters.  Ed 
ward  Hallett's  first  thought  was  for  Emily ; — he  felt  for  her  on 
every  side,  but  she  was  not  in  the  state-room ;  he  groped  his  way 
into  the  cabin,  but  he  could  not  find  her,  and  he  heard  no  sound 
that  told  of  her  existence.  In  terror  for  her,  self  was  forgotten — 
love  conquered  fear,  as  it  had  already  obtained  the  empire  over 


92  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

hate,  and  lie  called  her — "Emily — dear  Emily ! — hear  me — answer 
me,  Emily  I" 

He  listened  in  vain  for  the  sweet  voice  for  which  he  thirsted. 
Suddenly  he  bounded  up  the  cabin  steps  and  rushed  to  the  post 
at  which  he  knew  Captain  Durbin  was  most  likely  to  be  found  in 
such  a  scene,  crying  as  he  went,  "  Emily !  Emily !  oh  bring  a 
light  and  look  for  Emily !" 

The  shrill  cry  of  a  human  heart  in  agony  was  heard  above 
the  bellowing  of  the  winds  and  the  rush  of  the  waves,  and  without 
waiting  for  a  question,  withouj  heeding  even  the  miracle  that  the 
dumb  had  spoken,  Captain  Durbin  hastened  below,  followed  by 
his  agitated  summoner.  As  quickly  as  his  trembling  hands  per 
mitted,  he  struck  a  light  and  looked  around  for  his  child.  She 
had  been  dashed  against  a  chest,  and  lay  pale  and  seemingly 
lifeless,  with  the  red  blood  oozing  slowly  from  a  cut  in  the 
temple.  Edward  Hallett  had  lifted  her  before  Captain  Durbin 
could  lay  aside  his  light,  and  as  he  approached  him,  looking  up 
with  a  face  almost  as  pale  as  that  which  lay  upon  his  arm,  he 
exclaimed,  "  Oh,  sir  !  surely  she  is  not  dead !" 

It  was  not  till  Emily  had  again  opened  her  soft  eyes  and 
assured  her  father  that  she  was  not  much  hurt,  that  any  notice 
was  taken  of  the  very  unusual  fact  of  Edward  Hallett's  speaking. 

"  Father,  how  did  you  know  I  was  hurt  ?" 

"He  whom  we  have  thought  a  dumb  boy  called  me,  and  told 
me  he  could  not  find  you,"  said  Captain  Durbin,  looking  earnestly, 
almost  sternly  at  Edward,  who  colored  as  he  felt  that  eyes  he 
dared  not  meet,  were  upon  him.  But  the  gentle,  loving  Ernily 
took  his  hand,  and  said,  "Did  our  good  Heavenly  Father  make 
you  speak — I  am  so  glad — please  speak  to  me !" 

Edward  could  not  raise  his  eyes  to  hers,  but  covering  his  face 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  93 

with  his  other  hand,  he  fell  on  his  knees,  saying  to  her  and 
Captain  Durbin,  "  I  am  afraid  it  was  very  wicked,  but  indeed  I 
couldn't  help  it.  I  could  speak  all  the  time,  Emily,  but  I  was 
afraid  of  being  beaten  as  I  used  to  be,  if  I  seemed  like  other 
people — now  if  they  beat  me  I  must  bear  it — better  for  me  to  be 
beaten  than  to  have  Emily  lie  there  with  no  one  to  help  her." 

"  But  who  is  going  to  beat  you?  Nobody  will  beat  you — we 
all  love  you — don't  we,  father?"  cried  Emily,  bending  forward 
and  putting  her  arm  around  the  neck  of  her  protege. 

"We  must  hear  first  whether  he  is  worthy  of  our  love, 
my  dear,"  said  Captain  Durbin,  as  he  attempted  to  withdraw  his 
daughter's  arm,  and  to  make  her  lie  down  again — but  Edward 
had  seized  the  little  hand  and  held  it  around  his  neck,  while  he 
exclaimed  in  the  most  imploring  tones,  "Oh,-  sir!  let  Emily  love 
me — nobody  else  except  my  poor  mother  ever  loved  me.  Beat 
me  as  much  as  you  please,  and  I  will  not  say  a  word,  but  oh ! 
pray  sir !  don't  tell  Emily  she  must  not  love  me." 

"And  father,  if  he  was  wicked,  you  know  you  told  me  once 
that  we  must  love  the  wicked  and  try  to  do  them  good,  because 
our  Father  in  Heaven  loved  us  while  we  were  yet  sinners,"  urged 
Emily. 

That  gentle  voice  could  not  be  unheeded,  and  as  Captain  Dur 
bin  kissed  her,  he  laid  his  hand  kindly  on  the  boy's  head,  saying 
in  more  friendly  tones,  "  I  hope  he  has  not  been  wicked,  but  we 
will  hear  more  about  it  to-morrow — I  cannot  stay  longer  with  you 
now,  and  you  must  lie  still  just  where  I  have  put  you,  or  you 
may  roll  out  and  get  hurt.  We  shall  have  a  rough  sea  most  of 
the  night,  though,  thank  God!  no  danger,  for  the  wind  had  shifted 
and  slackened  a  little  before  that  great  wave  swept  you  away!" 

"  May  I  not  stay  by  Emily,  sir,  and  tell  her  what  made  me 
not  speak  ?  I  will  not  let  her  sit  up  again." 


94  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

" Oh,  yes!  do  father,  let  him  stay  till  you  come  down  again." 
Captain  Durbin  consented,  and  when  he  came  down  again  at 
midnight,  from  the  deck,  the  children  had  both  fallen  asleep,  but 
their  hands  were  clasped  in  each  other,  and  the  flushed  cheeks 
and  dewy  lashes  of  both  showed  that  they  had  been  weeping. 
The  next  morning  Captain  Durbin  heard  the  story  of  the  orphan 
boy.  Emily  Durbin  stood  beside  him  while  he  told  it,  and  he 
needed  the  courage  which  her  presence  gave  him,  for  his  cowed 
spirit  could  not  yet  rise  to  confidence  in  man.  The  mingled  in 
dignation  and  pity  with  which  Captain  Durbin  heard  the  simple 
but  touching  narrative  of  his  life — the  earnest  kindness  with 
which,  at  the  conclusion,  he  drew  him  to  his  side,  and  told  him 
that  he  would  be  his  father,  and  Emily  his  sister,  adding,  "  God 
gave  you  to  me,  and  as  His  gift  I  will  love  you  and  care  for  you," 
first  taught  him  that  his  friend  Emily  was  not  the  one  only  angel 
of  mercy  in  our  world.  As  time  passed  on,  and  Captain  Durbin 
kept  well  the  promise  of  those  words,  instructing  him  with  care 
and  guarding  him  with  tenderness  as  well  as  with  fidelity,  his 
faith  became  firm,  not  only  in  his  fellow-men,  but  in  Him  who 
had  brought  such  great  good  for  him  out  of  the  darkest  evil.  His 
long  repressed  affections  sprang  into  vigorous  growth,  his  intel 
lect  expanded  rapidly  in  their  glow,  his  eye  grew  bright,  his  step 
elastic,  and  his  whole  air  redolent  of  a  joy  which  none  but  those 
who  have  suffered  as  he  had  done  can  conceive.  In  the  handsome 
youth  who  returned  two  years  afterwards  with  Captain  Durbin  to 
Boston,  and  who  walked  so  proudly  at  his  side,  leading  Emily  by 
the  hand,  few  could  have  recognized  the  wild  boy  of  that  western 
Island. 

Such  was  the  transformation  which  the  spirit  of  love,  breath 
ing  itself  through  the  lips  of  a  little  child,  had  effected.  "  Verily, 
of  such"  children  "is  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  entertainment  of  the  evening  gave  its  character  to  our  con 
versation  on  the  following  morning.  It  was  a  conversation  too 
grave  for  introduction  into  a  work  intended  only  to  aid  in  the 
entertainment  of  festive  hours :  it  commenced  with  the  English 
"  poor  laws,"  and  ended  with  a  discussion  of  the  tenure  of  prop 
erty  in  that  land,  and  the  wisdom  of  our  own  republican  fathers  in 
abolishing  entails — a  subject  affording  a  fair  opportunity  to  us 
Americans,  to  indulge  a  little  in  that  self-glorification  which  we 
are  accused  of  loving  so  well. 

"  What  a  curious  book  would  a  '  History  of  Entails'  be  ! "  ex 
claimed  Mr.  Arlington,  "  how  full  of  the  romance  of  life ! " 

"  Eomance ! "  ejaculated  Annie. 

"Yes,  romance;  for  under  this  system,  the  poor  man,  whose 
life  seemed  doomed  to  be  one  unbroken  struggle  with  fortune, 
for  the  necessities  of  existence,  finds  himself,  by  some  unexpected 
casualty,  the  possessor  of  rank,  and  of  what  seems  to  him  bound 
less  wealth." 

"  Ah,  yes  ! "  said  I,  "but  you  have  given  us  only  the  bright 
side  of  the  picture.  To  make  room  for  this  stranger,  whose  only 
connection  with  the  house  of  which  he  has  so  unexpectedly  be 
come  the  head  is  probably  that  preserved  in  genealogical  tables, 
the  daughters  of  the  house,  or  their  children  it  may  be,  reared  in 


96  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

luxury,  must  go  forth  to  a  life  of  comparative  privation.  I  met, 
some  years  ago,  in  one  of  my  visits  to  the  Far  West,  a  young 
Englishman,  who — but  I  will  read  you  the  story  of  his  life,  as  I 
wrote  it  out  soon  after  parting  with  him." 

"  Have  you  a  picture  of  him,  Aunt  Nancy  ?  "  asked  Kobert 
Dudley. 

"Yes,  Kobert,"  I  replied  with  a  smile,  "but  you  must  have 
patience,  for  I  shall  neither  show  the  picture  nor  tell  the  story  till 
evening." 

When  we  were  assembled  in  the  evening,  Annie,  with  much 
ceremony,  led  me  to  the  high-backed  arm-chair,  which  she  called 
the  Speaker's  Chair,  and  placed  before  me  the  small  travelling- 
desk,  in  which  she  knew  my  manuscripts  were  kept.  I  unlocked 
it,  and  soon  found  the  scroll  of  which  I  was  in  search. 

"  But  the  picture,  Aunt  Nancy — where  is  the  picture  ?  "  cried 
the  eager  Kobert. 

"  Here  it  is,"  I  cried,  as  I  loosed  the  ribbon  with  which  the 
manuscript  was  bound  together,  and  produced  a  small  engraving, 
of  which  the  reader  has  a  copy  on  the  opposite  page.  It  was 
eagerly  caught  by  Robert,  and  handed  around  the  circle,  with 
exclamations  of  "  How  handsome ! "  "  What  an  exquisite  picture ! " 
"  What  a  fine  engraving  ! "  Mr.  Arlington  looked  at  it  a  moment, 
then,  with  a  smiling  glance  at  me,  handed  it,  without  a  word  of 
comment,  to  Col.  Donaldson. 

"  The  impertinent  puppy ! "  ejaculated  the  Colonel,  "  engrossed 
with  his  hawk  and  his  hound,  and  wearing  such  an  insolent  air  of 
self-absorption  in  the  presence  of  a  lady — poor  girl !  if  she  was  in 
any  way  connected  with  him,  I  am  not  surprised  that  she  should 
look  so  sad  and  reproachful." 

Mr.  Arlington's  smiling  glance  was  again  turned  on  me,  and  I 
met  it  with  a  hearty  laugh. 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  97 

"  Indeed,  Aunt  Nancy, "  said  the  Colonel,  who  seemed  strangely 
annoyed  by  my  laughter,  "I  think  your  Mend  does  you  little 
credit,  and  I  can  only  hope  that  he  had  some  of  these  lordly  airs 
drubbed  out  of  him  at  the  West." 

As  Col.  Donaldson  spoke  he  threw  down  the  engraving  which 
he  had  held,  and  pushed  his  chair  from  the  table. 

"I  assure  you,  sir,"  I  replied,  "my  friend  has  as  few  lordly 
airs  as  it  is  possible  to  conceive  in  one  born  to  such  lordly  cir 
cumstances,  nor  did  I  intend  to  impose  on  you  that  excellent 
engraving  of  one  of  Landseer's  finest  designs  as  an  actual  likeness 
of  him — though  had  you  ever  seen  him  I  might  easily  have  done  so, 
for  Landseer's  hero  really  resembles  mine  very  much  in  his  personal 
traits.  This  would  have  made  the  picture  valuable  to  me,  but  I 
preserved  it  rather  because  it  seemed  to  me  an  admirable  illustra 
tion  of  the  tendencies  of  that  idle,  luxurious  life  to  which,  before 
my  acquaintance  with  him,  he  had  been  subjected." 

"Well,  I  am  glad  he  did  not  sit  for  this  picture,"  said  Col. 
Donaldson ;  "  now  I  can  listen  to  your  story  with  some  pleasure." 

"  Thank  you ;  you  must  first  take  some  reflections  suggested 
to  me  by  the  incidents  I  have  here  narrated.  Of  the  character 
of  these  reflections  you  will  form  some  conception  from  the  title 
I  have  given  to  the  tale  into  which  I  have  interwoven  them.  I 
have  called  it 

£ife  in  terira. 

"  MEN  and  Manners  in  America"  was  the  comprehensive  title  of 
a  book  issued  some  fifteen  or  twenty  years  ago,  by  a  gentleman 
from  Scotland,  to  whom,  we  fear,  Americans  have  never  tendered 
the  grateful  acknowledgments  he  deserved  for  his  disinterested 

7 


98  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

efforts  to  teach  them  to  eat  eggs  properly,  and  to  give  due  time  to 
the  mastication  of  their  food.  This  benevolently  instructive 
work  was  the  precursor  of  a  host  of  others  on  the  same  or  kin 
dred  topics.  America  has  been  the  standard  subject  for  the  trial 
essays  of  European  tyros  in  philosophy,  political  economy,  and 
book-making  in  general.  Society  in  America  has  been  presented, 
it  would  seem,  in  all  its  aspects — religious,  educational,  industrial, 
political,  commercial,  and  fashionable.  Our  schools  and  our  pris 
ons,  our  churches  and  our  theatres,  have  been  in  turn  the  subject 
of  investigation,  of  unqualified  censure,  and  scarce  less  unquali 
fied  laudation. 

The  subject  thus  dissected,  put  together,  and  dissected  again, 
has  not  been  able  to  forbear  some  wincing  and  an  occasional  out 
cry,  when  the  scalpel  has  been  held  by  a  more  than  usually  unskil 
ful  hand — demonstrations  of  sensibility  which  have  occasioned 
apparently  as  much  disapprobation  as  surprise  in  the  anatomists. 
We  natter  ourselves  that  there  is  peculiar  fitness  in  the  metaphor 
just  used,  for  the  outer  form  only  of  American  life  has  been 
touched  by  these  various  writers.  Its  spirit,  that  which  gives  to  it 
its  peculiar  organization,  has  evaded  them  as  completely  as  the  soul 
of  man  evades  the  keenest  investigations  of  the  dissecting-room. 
Even  of  the  seat  of  the  spirit — of  the  point  whence  it  sends  forth 
its  subtle  influences,  giving  activity  and  direction  to  every  mem 
ber — of  the  HOMES  of  America,  they  have  little  real  knowledge. 
The  anatomist — the  reader  will  pardon  the  continuation  of  a  figure 
so  illustrative  of  our  meaning — the  anatomist  knows  that  not  only 
can  he  never  hope  to  lay  his  finger 'upon  the  principle  of  life,  but 
that  ere  he  can  pry  into  those  cells  in  which  its  mysterious  pro 
cesses  are  evolved,  they  must  have  been  dismantled  of  all  that 
could  have  guided  him  to  any  certain  deductions  respecting  its 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  99 

nature  and  mode  of  action.  And  seldom  is  the  eye  of  the  stran 
ger,  never  that  of  the  professed  book-maker,  suffered  to  rest  upon 
our  homes  till  they  have  undergone  changes  that  will  as  com 
pletely  baffle  his  penetration.  Nor  is  this  always  designedly.  It 
is  from  a  delicate  instinct  which  shrinks  from  subjecting  its  most 
sacred  and  touching  emotions  to  the  rude  gaze  and  ruder  com 
ment  of  the  world. 

We  have  been  led  to  these  observations  by  certain  events  of 
which  we  have  lately  become  informed,  and  which  we  would 
here  record,  as  illustrative  of  some  peculiarities  of  social  life  in 
America,  and  especially  of  the  new  development  of  character 
manifested  by  woman  under  the  influence  of  these  peculiarities. 

The  ringing  of  bells,  the  firing  of  cannon,  the  huzzaing  of 
the  assembling  multitude  on  the  announcement  in  London  of 
the  victory  of  "Waterloo,  must  have  seemed  a  bitter  mockery  to 
many  a  heart  mad  with  the  first  sharp  agony  of  bereavement. 
"The  few  must  suffer  that  the  many  may  rejoice,"  say  the 
statesman  and  the  warrior  while  they  plan  new  conquests.  It 
may  be  so,  but  we  have  at  present  to  do  with  the  sufferings  of 
the  few. 

On  the  list  of  the  killed  in  that  battle  appeared  the  name 
of  Horace  Danforth,  Captain  in  the  41st  Regiment  of  Infantry. 
It  was  a  name  of  little  note,  but  there  was  one  to  whom  it  was 
the  synonyme  of  all  that  gave  beauty  or  gladness  to  life ;  and 
ere  the  bells  had  ceased  to  sound,  or  the  eager  crowd  to  huzza, 
her  heart  was  still.  With  her  last  quivering  sigh  had  mingled 
the  wail  of  a  new-born  infant. 

Thus  was  Horace  Maitland  Danforth  ushered  into  life.  He 
had  been  born  at  the  house  of  his  maternal  uncle  Sir  Thomas 
Maitland,  and  as  his  mother  had  been  wholly  dependent  on 


100  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

this  gentleman,  and  his  father  had  been  a  soldier  of  fortune, 
leaving  to  his  son  no  heritage  but  his  name,  he  continued  there, 
as  carefully  reared  and  tenderly  regarded  as  though  he  had 
been  the  heir  to  Maitland  Park  and  to  all  its  dependencies. 
Though  Sir  Thomas  had,  for  many  years  after  the  birth  of  his 
nephew,  intended  to  marry,  it  was  an  intention  never  executed, 
and  when  Horace  attained  his  twenty -first  birthday,  his  majority 
was  celebrated  as  that  of  his  uncle's  heir,  and  as  such  he  was 
presented  by  Sir  Thomas  Maitland  to  his  assembled  tenantry. 
Soon  after  this  event,  the  Baronet  obtained  for  his  nephew  a  right 
to  the  name  and  arms  of  Maitland — a  measure  to  which,  knowing 
little  of  his  father's  family,  Horace  readily  consented.  Sir  Thomas 
Maitland  died  suddenly  while  yet  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  was 
succeeded  by  Sir  Horace,  then  twenty-four  years  of  age.  In  the 
enjoyments  of  society,  of  travel,  and  of  those  thousand  luxuries, 
mental  and  physical,  which  fortune  secures,  three  years  passed 
rapidly  away  with  the  young,  handsome,  and  accomplished 
Baronet. 

One  of  the  earliest  convictions  of  Horace  Maitland's  life  had 
been,  that  the  refining  presence  of  woman  was  necessary  to  the 
perfection  of  Maitland  Park,  and  when  Sir  Thomas  said  to  him, 
"  Marry,  Horace — do  not  be  an  old  bachelor  like  your  uncle" — 
though  he  answered  nothing,  he  vowed  in  the  inmost  recesses  of 
his  heart  that  it  should  not  be  his  fault  if  he  did  not  obey  the 
injunction.  Yet  to  the  world  it  seemed  wholly  his  own  fault  that 
at  twenty-seven  he  had  not  given  to  Maitland  Park  a  mistress, 
and  even  he  himself  could  not  attribute  his  continued  celibacy  to 
the  coldness  or  cruelty  of  woman ;  for,  in  truth,  though  he  had 
"knelt  at  many  a  shrine,"  he  had  "laid  his  heart  on  none."  If 
hardly  pressed  for  his  reason,  he  might  have  said  with  Ferdinand, 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  1Q1 

"For  several  virtues 
Have  I  liked  several  women ;  never  any 
With  so  full  soul,  but  some  defect  in  her 
Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  owned, 
And  put  it  to  the  foil." 

He  who  after  the  death  of  his  uncle  continued  to  urge  Sir 
Horace  most  on  the  subject  of  matrimony,  was  the  one  of  all  the 
world  who  might  have  been  supposed  least  desirous  to  see  him 
enter  into  its  bonds.  This  was  Edward  Maitland,  a  distant  cousin, 
somewhat  younger  than  himself,  to  whom  he  had  been  attached 
from  his  boyhood,  and  who  had  been  saved  by  his  generosity 
from  many  of  those  painful  experiences  to  which  a  very  narrow 
income  would  otherwise  have  subjected  him.  It  had  more  than 
once  been  suggested  to  Edward  Maitland,  that  should  his  cousin 
die  unmarried,  he  might  not  unreasonably  hope  to  become  his 
heir,  as  he  was  supposed  to  be  uncontrolled  by  any  entail  in  the 
disposal  of  his  property,  and  had  few  nearer  relations  than  him 
self,  and  none  with  whom  he  maintained  such  intimate  and  affec 
tionate  intercourse.  Nor  could  Edward  Maitland  fail  to  perceive 
that  his  own  value  in  society  was  in  inverse  ratio  to  the  chances 
of  the  Baronet's  marrying,  as  a  report  of  an  actual  proposal  on 
the  part  of  the  latter  had  more  than  once  occasioned  a  visible 
declension  in  the  number  and  warmth  of  his  invitations.  These 
considerations  appeared,  however,  only  to  stimulate  the  young 
man's  activity  in  the  search  of  a  wife  for  his  cousin.  Had  he 
been  employed  by  a  marriage  broker  with  a  prospect  of  a  liberal 
commission,  he  could  scarcely  have  been  more  indefatigable. 

"  Well,  Horace,"  exclaimed  the  younger  Maitland,  as  the  two 
sat  loitering  over  a  late  London  breakfast  one  morning,  "  how 
did  you  like  the  lady  to  whom  I  introduced  you  last  evening  ?  " 


102  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

A  smile  lighted  the  eyes  of  Sir  Horace  as  lie  replied,  "  Yery 
much,  Ned — she  is  certainly  intelligent,  and  has  read  and  thought 
more  than  most  ladies  of  her  age." 

"  She  will  make  a  very  useful  woman,  I  am  sure." 

"  And  an  agreeable  companion,"  added  Sir  Horace. 

"  And  a  good  wife — do  you  not  think  so,  Horace  ?  " 

"  She  doubtless  would  be  to  one  who  could  fancy  her,  Ned  ; 
for  me  her  style  is  a  little  too  prononce" 

"  Well,  really,  Horace,  I  cannot  imagine  what  you  will  have. 
One  woman  is  too  frivolous — another  wants  refinement — one  is 
too  indolent  and  exacting — and  when  you  can  make  no  other 
objection,  why,  her  style  is  a  little  too  prononce''1 — the  last  words 
were  given  with  ludicrous  imitation  of  his  cousin's  tone.  "  If  an 
angel  were  to  descend  from  heaven  for  you,  I  doubt  if  you  would 
be  suited." 

"So  do  I,"  replied  Horace,  with  a  gay  laugh  at  his  cousin's 
evident  vexation. 

And  thus  did  he  meet  all  Edward's  well-intended  efforts. 
The  power  of  choice  had  made  him  fastidious,  and  his  life  of 
luxury  and  freedom  had  brought  him  no  experiences  of  the  need 
of  another  and  gentler  self  as  a  consoler.  But  that  lesson  was 
approaching. 

A  call  from  his  lawyer  for  some  papers  necessary  to  complete 
an  arrangement  in  which  he  was  much  interested,  had  sent  Sir 
Horace  to  Maitland  Park,  in  the  midst  of  the  London  season,  to 
explore  the  yet  unfathomed  recesses  of  an  old  escritoire  of  Sir 
Thomas.  He  had  been  gone  but  two  days  when  Edward  received 
the  following  note  from  him,  written,  as  it  seemed,  both  in  haste 
and  agitation : — 

"  Come  to  me  immediately  on  the  receipt  of  this,  dear  Edward. 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  1Q3 

I  have  found  here  a  paper  of  the  utmost  importance  to  you  as 
well  as  to  me.  Come  quickly — take  the  chariot  and  travel  post. 
"Yours,  H.  D.  MAITLAND." 

In  less  than  an  hour  after  the  reception  of  this  note  Edward 
Maitland  was  on  the  road,  and  travelling  with  the  utmost  expedi 
tion,  he  arrived  at  Maitland  Park  just  as  the  day  was  fading  into 
dusky  eve. 

"How  is  Sir  Horace?"  he  asked  of  the  man  who  admitted 
him. 

"  I  do  not  think  he  seems  very  well,  sir.  You  will  find  him 
in  the  library,  Mr.  Edward — shall  I  announce  you,  sir  ?" 

"No,"  and  with  hurried  steps  and  anxious  heart  Edward 
Maitland  trod  the  well-known  passages  leading  to  the  library. 

When  he  entered  that  room,  Sir  Horace  was  standing  at  one 
of  its  windows  gazing  upon  the  landscape  without,  and  so  ab 
sorbed  was  he  that  he  did  not  move  at  the  opening  of  the  door. 
Edward  spoke,  and,  starting,  he  turned  towards  him  a  face  hag 
gard  with  some  yet  untold  suffering.  He  advanced  to  meet  his 
cousin,  and  with  an  almost  convulsive  grasp  of  the  hand,  said, 
"  I  am  glad  you  have  come,  Edward," — then,  without  heeding 
the  anxious  inquiries  addressed  to  him  by  Edward,  he  rang  the 
bell,  and  ordered  lights  in  a  tone  which  caused  them  to  be  brought 
without  a  moment's  delay.  As  soon  as  the  servant  who  brought 
them  had  left  the  room,  Horace  resumed :  "  Now,  Edward,  here 
is  the  paper  of  which  I  wrote  to  you ;  read  it  at  once." 

"Agitated  by  his  cousin's  manner,  Edward  took  the  old 
stained  paper  from  him  without  a  word,  and  seating  himself  near 
the  lights,  began  to  read,  while  Sir  Horace  stood  just  opposite 
him,  eyeing  him  intently.  In  a  very  few  minutes  Edward  looked 
up  with  a  puzzled  air  and  said,  "  I  do  not  understand  one  word 
of  it.  What  does  it  all  mean,  Horace  ?" 


104  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

"  It  means  that  you  are  Sir  Edward  Maitland — that  you  are 
master  here — and  that  I  am  a  beggar." 

"Horace,  you  are  mad!"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  starting 
from  his  chair,  with  quivering  limbs  and  a  face  from  which  every 
trace  of  color  had  departed. 

Hitherto  the  tone  in  which  Sir  Horace  had  spoken,  the  alter 
nate  flush  and  pallor  on  his  face,  and  the  shiver  that  occasionally 
passed  over  his  frame,  had  shown  him  to  be  fearfully  excited ; 
but  as  Edward  became  agitated,  all  these  signs  of  emotion  passed 
away,  and  with  wonderful  calmness,  taking  the  paper  in  his  hand, 
he  commenced  reading  that  part  of  it  which  explained  its  pur 
pose.  This  was  to  secure  the  descent  of  the  baronetcy  of  Mait 
land  and  the  property  attached  to  it  in  the  male  line.  Having 
made  Edward  Maitland  comprehend  this  purpose,  Sir  Horace 
drew  towards  him  a  genealogical  table  of  their  family,  and  showed 
him  that  he  was  himself  the  only  living  descendant  in  a  direct 
line  through  an  unbroken  succession  of  males  from  the  period  at 
which  this  entail  was  made. 

"And  now,  Edward,"  he  said  in  conclusion,  "I  am  prepared 
to  give  up  every  thing  to  you.  That  you  have  so  long  been  de 
frauded  of  your  rights  has  been  through  ignorance  on  my  part, 
and  equal  ignorance,  I  am  convinced,  on  the  part  of  my  uncle. 
You  know  he  paid  little  attention  to  business,  leaving  it  wholly 
to  his  agents.  I  have  often  heard  him  express  a  wish  to  examine 
the  papers  in  the  old  secretary  in  which  I  found  this  deed,  saying 
that  they  had  been  sent  home  by  old  Harris  when  he  gave  up  his 
business  to  his  nephew — the  old  man  writing  to  my  uncle,  that 
as  they  consisted  of  leases  that  had  fallen  in,  or  of  antiquated 
deeds,  they  were  no  longer  of  any  value  except  as  family  records. 
It  was  a  just  Providence  that  led  me  to  that  secretary  to  search 
for  the  missing  title-deeds  of  the  farm  I  was  about  to  sell." 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  1Q5 

Edward  Maitland  had  sunk  into  his  chair  from  sheer  inability 
to  stand,  and  for  several  minutes  after  his  cousin  had  ceased  speak 
ing,  he  still  sat,  with  his  elbows  resting  on  the  table  before  him, 
and  his  face  buried  in  his  clasped  hands.  At  length  looking  up, 
he  said,  "Horace,  let  us  burn  this  paper  and  forget  it." 

"  Forget !  that  is  impossible,  Edward." 

"  Why  ? — why  not  live  as  we  have  done  ?  You  speak  of  de 
frauding  me,  but  what  have  I  wanted  that  you  had  ?  Has  not 
your  purse  been  as  my  own  ?  Your  home — has  it  not  been  mine  ? 
It  shall  be  so  still.  We  will  share  the  fortune,  and  as  to  the 
title,  you  will  wear  it  more  gracefully  than  I." 

"  Dear  Edward !  Such  proof  of  your  generous  affection  ought 
to  console  me  for  all  changes,  and  it  shall.  I  will  confess  to  you 
that  I  have  suffered,  but  it  is  past.  My  people —  "  his  voice 
faltered,  his  chest  heaved,  and  turning  away  he  walked  more  than 
once  across  the  room  before  he  resumed — "they  are  mine  no 
longer — but  you  will  be  kind  to  them,  Edward,  I  know." 

"Horace,  you  will  drive  me  mad!"  cried  Edward  Maitland. 
"  Promise,  I  conjure  you,  promise  me  to  say  nothing  more  of 
this." 

He  threw  himself  as  he  spoke  into  his  cousin's  arms  with  an 
agitation  which  Horace  vainly  sought  to  soothe,  until  he  promised 
"  to  speak"  no  further  on  this  subject  at  present  to  any  one.  Sat 
isfied  with  this  promise,  and  exhausted  by  the  emotions  of  the 
last  hour,  Edward  soon  retired  to  his  own  room.  It  was  long 
before  he  slept,  and  had  he  not  been  in  a  distant  part  of  the 
house,  he  would  have  heard  the  hurried  steps  with  which,  for 
many  an  hour  after  he  was  left  alone,  Sir  Horace  Maitland  con 
tinued  to  pace  the  floor  of  the  dimly  lighted  library.  The  clock 
was  on  the  stroke  of  three  when  he  seated  himself  and  began  the 
following  letter: 


106  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

DEAR  EDWARD  : — I  must  go,  and  at  once.  I  cannot  without 
the  loss  of  self-respect  continue  to  play  the  master  here  another 
day,  neither  can  I  live  as  a  dependent  within  these  walls — no,  not 
for  an  hour.  Do  not  attempt  to  follow  me,  for  I  will  not  see  you. 
I  will  write  you  as  soon  as  I  arrive  at  my  point  of  destination — I 
know  not  yet  where  that  will  be.  Feel  no  anxiety  about  me.  I 
shall  take  with  me  a  thousand  pounds,  and  will  leave  an  order 
for  Decker  to  receive  from  you  and  hold  subject  to  my  draft 
whatever  sum  may  accrue  from  the  sale,  at  a  fair  valuation,  of 
Sir  Thomas  Maitland's  personal  property,  which  he  had  an  un 
doubted  right  to  will  as  he  pleased,  the  amount  of  the  mesne 
rents  expended  by  me  during  the  last  three  years  having  been 
deducted  therefrom.  Do  not  attempt  to  force  favors  upon  me, 
Edward — I  cannot  bear  them  now.  Such  attempts  would  only 
compel  me  to  cut  myself  loose  from  you  and  your  affection — the 
one  blessing  that  earth  still  holds  for  me. 

My  trunks  have  been  packed  for  two  days,  for  my  first  resolve 
was  to  go  from  this  place  and  from  England.  I  shall  take  the 
chariot  in  which  you  came  down  and  fresh  horses,  but  I  will  send 
them  back  to  you  from  London. 

God  bless  you,  Edward.  I  dare  not  speak  of  my  feelings  to 
you  now,  lest  I  should  lose  the  strength  and  self-command  I  need 

so  much.     God  bless  you. 

H.  D.  MAITLAND. 

Stealthily  did  Sir  Horace  move  through  the  wide  halls  and 
ascend  the  lofty  stairs  of  this  home  of  his  life,  feeling  at  every 
step  the  rushing  tide  of  memory  conflicting  with  the  sad  thought 
that  he  was  treading  them  for  the  last  time.  Having  reached  his 
sleeping  apartment,  he  rang  a  bell  which  he  knew  would  summon 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  1Q7 

his  own  man.  Rapidly  as  the  man  moved,  the  time  seemed  long 
to  him  ere  the  summons  was  obeyed,  and  he  had  given  the  neces 
sary  orders  to  have  the  carriage  prepared  and  the  trunks  brought 
down  as  soon  as  possible,  uand  as  quietly,"  he  added,  "as  he  did 
not  wish  to  disturb  Mr.  Edward,  who  had  retired  to  bed  late." 

"  Will  you  not  take  breakfast,  sir,  before  you  set  out?"  asked 
the  man. 

"  No,  John.  Let  the  carriage  follow  me ;  I  shall  walk  on. 
Be  quick,  and  make  no  noise." 

A  faint  streak  of  light  was  just  beginning  to  appear  in  the 
east,  when  the  heretofore  master  of  that  lordly  mansion  went  out 
into  a  world  which  held  for  him  no  other  home.  ACCIDENT,  as 
short-sighted  mortals  name  events  controlled  by  no  human  will, 
decided  whither  he  should  direct  his  course  from  London.  He 
had  called  at  his  lawyer's — the  already  mentioned  "nephew  of 
old  Harris" — determined  to  communicate  his  discovery  to  him, 
perhaps  with  some  faint  hope  of  learning  that  the  entail  had  been 
in  some  way  set  aside,  before  Sir  Thomas  had  ventured  to  make 
his  sister's  son  his  heir.  Mr.  Decker  was  not  in  his  rooms,  and 
sitting  down  to  wait  for  him,  he  took  up  mechanically  the  morn 
ing  paper  that  lay  on  his  table.  The  first  thing  on  which  his  eyes 
rested  was  the  advertisement  of  a  steam  packet  about  to  sail  from 
Liverpool  for  America. 

"  America ! — the  very  place  for  me.  I  shall  meet  no  acquaint 
ance  there,"  was  the  thought  which  flashed  through  his  mind. 
Another  glance  at  the  paper  for  the  day  and  hour  of  the  packet's 
sailing,  an  examination  of  his  watch,  an  impatient  look  from  the 
window  up  and  down  the  street,  and  again  he  mused,  "  I  have 
not  a  moment  to  spare,  and  if  I  wait  for  Decker  I  may  be  kept 
for  hours,  and  so  lose  the  packet ;  and  why  should  I  wait.  Have 
I  not  seen  the  deed?  This  indecision  is  folly." 


108  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

The  result  of  these  reflections  was  a  note  rapidly  written  to 
Mr.  Decker,  stating  his  discovery  of  the  deed  of  entail,  his  conse 
quent  surrender  of  all  claim  to  the  property  to  Edward  Maitland, 
and  his  determination  to  quit  England  immediately.  All  arrange 
ments  respecting  the  settlement  of  his  claims  on  the  estate,  and  the 
claims  of  the  present  proprietor  upon  him,  he  left  to  Sir  Edward 
and  Mr.  Decker,  empowering  the  latter  to  receive  and  retain  for 
his  use  and  subject  to  his  order,  whatever,  on  such  a  settlement, 
should  appertain  to  him. 

This  note  was  left  on  Mr.  Decker's  table,  and  in  one  hour 
after  leaving  his  office  Horace  Maitland  was  advancing  to  Liv 
erpool  with  the  rapidity  of  steam.  The  packet  waited  but  the 
arrival  of  the  train  in  which  he  was  a  passenger,  to  leave  the 
shores  of  England.  With  what  bitterness  he  watched  those  re 
ceding  shores,  while  memory  wrote  upon  his  bare  and  bleeding 
heart  the  record  of  joys  identified  with  them,  and  fading  like 
them  for  ever  from  his  life,  let  each  imagine  for  himself,  for  to 
such  emotions  no  language  can  do  justice. 

A  voyage  across  the  Atlantic  is  now  too  common  an  event  to 
stay,  even  for  a  moment,  the  pen  of  a  narrator.  From  Boston, 
Horace — no  longer  Sir  Horace — wrote  to  his  cousin  as  follows : — 

DEAE  EDWARD — Here  I  am  among  the  republicans,  with 
whom  I  may  flatter  myself  I  have  lost  nothing  by  sinking  Sir 
Horace  Maitland  into  plain  Mr.  Danforth.  Such  is  now  my 
address,  assumed  not  from  fear  that  in  this  distant  quarter  of  the 
world  I  shall  meet  any  to  whom  the  name  of  Maitland  is  familiar, 
but  because  much  of  which  I  do.  not  desire  to  be  reminded  is  asso 
ciated  with  that  name.  I  said  to  you  when  leaving  my  home, 
dear  Edward,  "  Do  not  fear  for  me."  I  can  now  repeat  this  with 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  109 

better  reason.  The  first  stunning  shock  of  the  change  to  which 
I  was  so  suddenly  subjected  has  been  borne.  My  past  life  already 
seems  to  me  as  a  dream  from  which  I  have  been  rudely  but 
effectually  awakened.  I  am  now  first  to  begin  life  in  reality. 

The  accident  which  determined  me  to  seek  these  shores  was  a 
happy  one.  I  cannot  well  dream  here  where  all  around  me  is 
active,  vigorous  life.  "We  are  accustomed  in  England  to  think  of 
the  American  shores  as  the  Ultima  Thule  in  a  western  direction, 
but  when  we  reach  these  shores  we  find  that  the  movement  is 
still  west.  The  daily  papers  are  filled  with  accounts  of  persons 
migrating  west,  and  thither  am  I  going.  "  The  world  is  all  before 
me  where  to  choose"  the  theatre  of  my  new  life — my  life  of 
work — and  I  would  have  it  far  from  the  blue  sea,  out  of  hearing 
of  the  murmur  of  the  waves  that  lave  my  island  home.  I  will 
go  where  the  wide  prairies  sweep  away  on  every  side  to  the  hori 
zon — where  every  link  with  other  lands  will  be  severed,  and 
America  below  and  Heaven  above  constitute  my  universe.  ' '  You 
will  find  no  society  at  the  West,"  has  been  said  to  me.  This  is 
another  attraction  to  that  region.  I  would  work  out  my  destiny 
in  solitude.  I  desire  to  travel  without  company,  and  have  made 
my  arrangements  accordingly.  I  have  purchased  three  substan 
tial  horses  for  a  little  more  than  one  hundred  pounds,  and  have 
engaged  a  shrewd,  active  lad  as  groom,  valet,  and  he  seems  to 
think,  companion,  at  about  two  pounds  per  month.  A  very  light 
carriage,  sometimes  driven  by  my  servant  and  sometimes  by  my 
self,  will  transport  the  moderate  wardrobe  which  I  shall  deem  it 
necessary  to  take  with  me  to  the  outermost  verge  of  civilization 
and  good  roads,  where  leaving  carriage  and  wardrobe,  or  at  least 
all  of  the  last  which  may  not  be  borne  by  a  led-horse,  I  shall  pen 
etrate  still  further  into  the  old  forests  of  this  New  World.  I  long 


HO  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

to  be  alone  with  "  Nature's  full,  free  heart" — perchance,  there, 
my  own  may  beat  as  of  yore. 

Farewell,  dear  Edward.  You  may  hear  of  me  next  among 
the  Sacs  and  Foxes — at  present  address  H.  Danforth,  care  of 

Or &  D ,  Merchants, street,  Boston. 

Yours  ever,  H.  DANFOKTH. 

A  new  external  life  had  indeed  opened  upon  this  child  of 
luxury  and  conventional  refinement.  He  whose  movements  had 
been  chronicled  as  matter  of  interest  to  the  public,  for  whose 
presence  the  "  world"  had  postponed  its  fetes,  might  now  travel 
hundreds  of  miles  without  observation  or  inquiry.  He  upon 
whose  steps  had  waited  a  crowd  of  obsequious  attendants,  now 
found  himself  with  one  follower,  whose  tone  of  independence 
scarce  permitted  him  to  call  him  servant.  In  cities,  where  he 
would  still  have  been  surrounded  by  those  conventional  distinc 
tions  of  which  he  had  himself  been  deprived,  the  sense  of  a  great 
loss  would  have  been  ever  present  with  him,  and  the  contrast 
with  the  past  would  have  made  the  fairest  present  to  which  he 
could  now  attain,  desolate.  But  there  could  be  no  comparison, 
and  therefore  no  painful  contrast,  between  the  wild  life  of  the 
prairies  and  the  ultra-civilization  of  English  aristocratic  society. 
In  the  excitement  and  adventure  of  the  one,  he  hoped  to  forget 
the  other.  He  sought  to  forget — not  to  be  resigned,  to  acquiesce. 
His  inner  life  was  unchanged.  He  had  been  a  dreamer — a  pleas 
ure-seeker — and  a  dreamer  and  pleasure-seeker  he  continued, 
though  the  dreams  and  the  pleasures  must  be  wrought  from  new 
materials.  To  sketch  the  progress  of  such  a  character  through  the 
shifting  scenes  of  his  new  existence — to  observe  him  in  his  asso 
ciation  with  the  strong,  daring,  acute,  but  uncultivated  denizens 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

of  our  frontier  States — to  stand  with  sympathizing  heart  beside 
him  as  he  first  entered  upon  those  unpeopled  solitudes  in  whose 
silence  God  speaks  to  the  soul,  is  not  permitted  us  at  present. 
This  may  be  the  work  of  another  day ;  but  now  we  must  pass 
at  once  with  him  from  Boston  to  a  scene  within  the  confines  of 
Iowa.  His  carriage  had  been  left  behind,  and  for  two  days  he 
had  been  riding  over  a  rolling  country,  whose  grassy  knolls,  dotted 
here  and  there  with  clumps  of  trees,  brought  occasionally  to  his 
mind  the  park  scenery  of  his  own  land.  Early  in  this  day  he  had 
passed  a  farm  with  a  comfortable  house  and  substantial  out-build 
ings,  but  no  dwelling  of  man  had  since  presented  itself  to  him, 
though  the  sun  was  now  low  in  the  western  sky.  Under  ordi 
nary  circumstances  this  would  have  been  of  little  consequence, 
for  he  had  already  spent  more  than  one  night  in  the  open  air 
without  discomfort ;  but  his  attendant  had  heard  a  distant  mut 
tering  of  thunder,  and  John  Stacy  was  not  the  lad  to  encounter 
without  murmuring  a  night  of  storm  unsheltered.  John's  anxiety 
made  him  keen-sighted,  and  he  was  the  first  to  perceive  and  an 
nounce  the  approach  of  a  rider.  We  use  the  neutral  term  rider 
not  without  consideration,  for  he  was  one  in  whom  a  certain  ease 
of  manner,  and  even  an  air  of  command,  contradicted  the  testi 
mony  of  habiliments  made  and  worn  after  a  fashion  recognized 
nowhere  as  characteristic  of  the  genus  gentleman.  A  courteous 
inquiry  from  Horace  Danforth  respecting  the  nearest  place  at 
which  a  night's  shelter  might  be  obtained,  led  to  a  cordial  invita 
tion  to  him  to  return  with  him  to  his  own  house.  It  was  an  invi 
tation  not  to  be  disregarded  under  existing  circumstances,  and  it 
was  accepted  with  evident  pleasure  both  by  master  and  man. 

Mr.  Grahame,  for  so  the  new-comer  had  announced  himself, 
led  the  way  back  for  a  short  distance  over  the  route  just  pursued 


112  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

by  our  travellers,  and  then  striking  off  to  the  left,  rode  briskly 
forward  for  several  miles.  The  light  gray  clouds  which  had  long 
been  gathering  in  the  western  sky  had  deepened  into  blackness 
as  they  proceeded,  and  flashes  of  lightning  were  darting  across 
their  path,  and  large  drops  of  rain  were  falling  upon  them  when 
they  neared  a  house  constructed  of  logs,  yet  bearing  some  evi 
dence  of  taste  in  the  grounds  around  it,  as  well  as  in  its  position, 
which  was  on  the  side  of  a  gently  sloping  hill,  looking  out  upon 
a  landscape  through  which  wound  a  clear  and  rapid,  though 
narrow  stream. 

"  Like  good  cavaliers,  we  will  see  our  horses  housed  first," 
said  Mr.  Grahame,  riding  past  the  main  building  to  one  of  the 
out-houses,  built  also  of  logs,  which  served  as  a  stable.  Here 
Horace  Danforth  relinquished  his  tired  steed  to  the  care  of  John 
Stacy,  and  Mr.  Grahame  having  himself  rubbed  down  his  own 
beautiful  animal,  and  thrown  a  bundle  of  hay  before  him,  with  a 
slight  apology  to  his  visitor  for  the  detention,  led  the  way  into  the 
house.  As  they  entered  the  vacant  parlor  a  shade  of  something 
like  dissatisfaction  passed  over  the  master's  countenance,  and 
having  seen  his  guest  seated  by  a  huge  fire-place,  whose  cheerful 
blaze  of  wood  a  chilly  evening  made  by  no  means  unwelcome, 
he  left  him  alone.  He  soon  returned,  however,  with  a  brighter 
expression,  which  was  explained  by  his  saying,  "  I  feared,  on 
finding  this  room  empty,  that  my  daughter  had  been  sent  for  to  a 
sick  woman  with  whom  she  has  lately  spent  several  days  and 
nights,  and  that  I  could  offer  you  only  the  discomforts  of  a  bach 
elor's  establishment ;  but  I  find  she  is  at  home,  and  will  soon  give 
us  supper." 

During  the  absence  of  his  host,  our  Englishman  had  looked 
around  with  increasing  surprise  at  the  contents  of  the  parlor. 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  H3 

The  furniture  was  of  the  most  simple  description,  yet  marked  by 
a  certain  neatness  and  gracefulness  of  arrangement  indicative,  as 
he  could  not  but  think,  of  a  cultivated  taste.  The  same  mingling 
of  even  rude  simplicity  of  material  and  tasteful  arrangement  pre 
vailed  in  the  chamber  to  which  his  host  now  conducted  him,  and 
where  the  luxury,  for  such  he  had  learned  to  regard  it,  of  abun 
dance  of  clear  water  and  clean  napkins  awaited  him.  In  a  very 
few  minutes  after  his  return  to  the  parlor  a  door  was  opened, 
through  which  he  obtained  a  view  of  an  inner  apartment,  well 
lighted,  and  containing  a  table  so  spread  as  to  present  no  slight 
temptation  to  a  traveller  who  had  not  broken  his  fast  since  the 
morning  meal.  At  the  head  of  this  table  stood  a  young  woman 
of  graceful  form,  whom  his  host  introduced  to  him  as  his  daughter, 
Miss  Grahame. 

Mary  Grahame's  clear  complexion  glowing  with  the  hue  of 
health,  her  large  and  soft  and  dark  gray  eyes,  her  abundant 
glossy  black  hair,  might  have  won  from  the  most  fastidious  some 
of  that  admiration  given  to  personal  beauty ;  but  in  truth  Horace 
Danforth  had  grown  indifferent  as  well  as  fastidious,  and  it  was 
not  till  in  after  days  he  had  seen  the  complexion  glow  and  the 
dark  eyes  kindle  with  feeling,  that  he  said  to  himself,  "  She  is 
beautiful."  To  the  fascination  of  a  peculiarly  graceful,  gentle, 
yet  earnest  manner  he  was,  however,  more  quickly  susceptible. 
During  this  first  evening,  the  chief  emotion  excited  in  his  mind 
was  surprise  at  the  style  of  conversation  and  manner,  the  acquaint 
ance  with  books  and  with  les  biensgances  which  marked  these  in 
habitants  of  a  log  cabin  in  the  western  wilds — these  denizens  of  a 
half-savage  life. 

A  day  of  hard  riding  had  induced  such  fatigue,  that  even  the 
rare  and  unexpected  pleasure  of  communication  with  refined  and 
8 


H4-  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

cultivated  minds  could  not  keep  Horace  Danforth  long  from  his 
pillow.  As  he  expected  to  set  out  in  the  morning  very  early,  he 
would  have  made  his  adieus  in  parting  for  the  night,  mingling 
with  them  courteous  expressions  of  the  enjoyment  which  such 
society  had  afforded  him  after  his  long  abstinence  from  all  intel 
lectual  converse. 

"  Believe  me,"  said  Mr.  Grahame,  and  the  sentiment  was  cor 
roborated  by  his  daughter's  eyes,  "the  pleasure  has  been  mutual. 
Society  is  the  great  want  of  our  western  life.  I  have  been  wish 
ing  to  ask  whether  your  business  was  too  urgent  to  permit  you 
to  afford  us  more  of  this  coveted  good  ?" 

"  I  am  ashamed  to  confess,"  said  Horace  Danforth,  with  some 
embarrassment,  "  that  I  have  no  business  at  present — that  I  am 
an  idler — I  verily  believe  the  only  one  in  your  country." 

"  Then  will  you  not  give  us  the  pleasure  of  your  company  for 
a  longer  time  ?  A  little  rest  will  be  no  disadvantage  either  to 
your  horses  or  yourself,  and  on  us  you  will  be  conferring  a  favor 
which  you  cannot  appreciate  till  you  have  lived  five  hundred 
miles  away  from  civilization." 

The  invitation  was  accepted  as  cordially  as  it  was  given,  to 
the  great  satisfaction  of  John  Stacy,  who  had  been  much  pleased 
with  the  appearance  of  land  in  this  neighborhood,  and  wanted 
time  to  look  about  him  preparatory  to  purchasing. 

Horace  Danforth  awoke  early  the  next  morning,  and  throw 
ing  open  the  shutters  of  the  only  window  in  his  room,  found  that 
a  stormy  night  had  been  succeeded  by  an  unusually  brilliant  morn 
ing.  "  To  brush  the  dews  from  off  the  upland  lawn"  had  not 
been  a  habit  of  his  past  life ;  but  the  cool  fresh  air,  the  spicy  per 
fumes  which  it  wafted  to  him,  and  the  brightness  and  verdure  of 
the  whole  landscape,  proved  now  more  inviting  than: -his  pillow, 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  H5 

and  dressing  himself  nastily,  lie  descended  the  clean  but  rude 
and  uncarpeted  stairs  as  gently  as  possible,  lest  he  should  rouse 
Miss  Grahame  from  her  slumbers.  He  found  the  front  door  open, 
showing  that  he  was  not  the  first  of  the  household  who  had  gone 
abroad  that  day.  As  he  stepped  out  upon  the  lawn,  he  discovered 
that  the  parlor  windows  were  likewise  open,  and  a  familiar  air, 
hummed  in  low,  suppressed  tones,  caused  him  to  look  through 
them  as  he  passed.  Could  he  believe  his  eyes  ?  Was  that  neatest 
and  prettiest  of  all  housemaids,  who,  moving  with  light  and  even 
graceful  steps,  was  yet  busied  in  the  very  homely  task  of  dusting 
and  arranging  the  furniture  in  the  parlor — was  she  indeed  the 
same  Miss  Grahame  who  had  last  evening  charmed  him  by  her 
lady-like  deportment  and  intelligent  conversation  ?  Yes,  the  very 
same ;  for  though  the  glossy  black  braids  were  covered  by  a  gay 
colored  handkerchief  wound  around  her  head  &  la  Turque,  there 
was  the  same  wide  forehead  and  well-defined  brows ;  the  same 
soft,  dark  gray  eyes ;  the  same  slightly  aquiline  nose  and  smiling 
mouth.  Nor  was  the  conversation  of  last  evening  more  opposed, 
in  his  imagination,  to  her  present  employment,  than  the  evident 
taste  and  feeling  with  which  she  was  now  singing  that  most  beau 
tiful  hymn  of  the  Irish  poet : — 

"O  God!   Thou  art  the  life  and  light 
Of  all  this  wondrous  world  I  see." 

Listening  and  gazing,  wondering  and  comparing,  he  had  well 
nigh  forgotten  himself  when,  turning  suddenly  to  the  window 
and  raising  her  head,  their  eyes  met.  The  color  which  rushed 
quickly  to  her  very  temples,  recalled  him  to  himself,  and  bowing, 
with  certainly  not  less  embarrassment  than  she  evinced,  he  walked 
rapidly  on.  He  had  not  proceeded  far,  however,  when  he  saw 


116  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

his  host  approaching  from  an  opposite  direction.  As  Mr.  Gra- 
hame  had  already  spent  more  than  an  hour  in  his  fields,  sharing 
as  well  as  directing  the  labors  of  his  men,  he  expressed  no  sur 
prise  at  meeting  his  guest  abroad.  After  a  cordial  greeting,  and 
a  few  general  observations  on  the  weather  and  scenery  had  been 
exchanged,  Mr.  Grahame,  glancing  up  at  the  sun,  which  had  now 
risen  considerably  above  a  distant  wood,  said,  "I  am  sorry  to 
interrupt  your  walk,  but  my  morning's  work  has  made  me  by  no 
means  indifferent  to  my  breakfast,  and  I  think  that  Mary's  coffee 
and  biscuits  are  about  this  time  done  to  a  turn." 

A  few  minutes  brought  them  back  to  the  house,  and  into  the 
parlor  from  which  Mary  Grahame  had  disappeared,  leaving  be 
hind  her,  in  its  neat  and  tasteful  arrangement,  and  in  the  fresh 
flowers  that  adorned  the  table  and  mantelpiece,  evidence  of  her 
presence.  The  gentlemen  were  soon  summoned  to  breakfast. 

It  may  have  been  that  his  early  rising  had  given  to  Horace 
Danforth  an  unusual  appetite ;  but  certain  it  is  that  no  breakfast 
of  which  he  had  ever  partaken  seemed  to  him  half  so  inviting  as 
this.  And  yet,  in  truth,  it  was  simple  enough :  toast,  crisp  and 
brown,  warm,  light  biscuits,  fresh  eggs,  good  butter,  excellent 
coffee,  and  rich  cream,  were  all  it  offered.  Mary  Grahame  pre 
sided,  and,  speaking  little  herself,  listened  to  her  father  and 
Horace,  while  they  discussed  the  different  characteristics  of  Eng 
lish  or  European  and  American  society,  with  a  pleased  and 
intelligent  countenance.  Some  observation  from  him  drew  from 
Mr.  Grahame  the  following  reply  : — 

"  There  is  one  feature  of  American  society  upon  which  I  think 
no  foreigner  has  remarked,  or  if  he  has,  it  has  been  so  cursorily  as 
plainly  to  show  that  he  was  far  from  appreciating  its  importance  ; 
I  mean  the  fact  that  here  the  thinker  is  likewise  the  worker.  In 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

England  and  the  European  States,  the  working  class  is  distinct 
from  the  consumers,  and  there  must  be  almost  as  great  a  contrast 
in  the  intellectual  as  in  the  physical  condition  of  the  two.  All  the 
refinement,  the  cultivation,  must  remain  with  those  who  have 
leisure  and  fortune — as  a  class,  I  mean,  for  individuals  will  of 
course  be  found,  who,  in  spite  of  all  disadvantages,  will  rise  to 
the  highest  position.  But  here,  in  America,  there  are  no  idlers. 
Here,  with  few  if  any  exceptions,  all  must  be,  in  some  way, 
workers,  and  all  may  be  thinkers.  We  attain  thus  to  a  republic 
of  mind." 

"Do  you  not  fear  that  the  result  of  this  will  be  to  check  the 
development  of  individual  greatness ;  that  as  you  have  no  king  in 
the  State,  so  you  will  have  no  king  in  literature  ?  " 

"  Even  were  this  so,  it  would  remain  a  question,  whether  the 
great  increase  of  general  intelligence  would  not  more  than  com 
pensate  the  evil." 

"  Can  many  Polloks  repay  us  for  one  Milton — many  Dry  dens 
for  one  Shakspeare?" 

"You  take  extreme  cases;  besides,  I  only  admitted  your  sup 
position  to  show  that  I  could  produce  a  set-off  to  the  disadvan 
tage.  I  do  not  believe  that  the  necessity  for  labor  of  some  sort 
will  prevent  a  truly  great  mind  from  achieving  for  itself  the 
highest  distinction.  I  think  the  history  of  such  minds  proves 
that  it  will  rather  serve  as  a  stimulus  to  their  powers." 

Horace  Danforth  was  silent,  and  after  a  moment's  pause,  Mr. 
Grahame  resumed. 

"  In  this  union  of  the  working  and  the  thinking  classes  the 
refinements  of  life,  those  things  which  adorn  and  beautify  it, 
take  their  true  place  as  consolers  and  soothers  of  the  care-worn 
and  toil- wearied  mind.  No  Italian  opera  can  give  such  delight 


118  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

to  the  sated  man  of  pleasure  as  the  tired  laborer  feels  in  listening 
to  the  evening  song  with  which  some  loved  one,  in  his  home, 
sings  him  to  repose." 

"You  speak  con  amore"  said  Horace  Danforth,  smiling  at  his 
host's  fervor. 

"  I  do.  Had  I  been  excluded  from  the  refinements  of  social 
life,  I  should  long  since  have  fainted  and  grown  weary  of  my  toil 
here.  I  felt  this  when  compelled  to  relinquish  my  daughter's 
society  for  two  years,  that  she  might  have  the  advantage  of  instruc 
tion  in  those  branches  of  a  womanly  education  in  which  I  could 
give  her  no  aid." 

"And  having  spent  two  years  in  the  more  cultivated  East,  did 
Miss  Grahame  return  willingly  to  her  home  in  the  wilderness  ?" 

This  question  was  addressed  to  Mary  Grahame  herself,  and 
she  answered  simply,  "  My  father  was  here." 

"  You  acknowledge,  then,  that  could  your  father  have  been 
with  you,  you  would  have  preferred  remaining  at  the  East  ?" 

"  Oh,  no !  I  was  fifteen  when  my  father  sent  me  from  home, 
and  those  who  have  enjoyed  the  free  life  of  the  prairies  so  long, 
seldom  love  cities." 

"  But  the  ease,  the  freedom  from  labor  which  is  enjoyed  in  a 
more  advanced  stage  of  society,  the  power  to  devote  yourself  to 
pursuits  agreeable  to  your  taste — did  you  not  regret  these  ?" 

"  Permit  me  to  put  your  question  into  plainer  language," 
interposed  Mr.  Grahame.  "  Mr.  Danforth  would  ask,  Mary, 
whether  you  would  not  prefer  to  live  where  you  would  not  be 
compelled  to  degrade  your  mind  — 

"  No,  no,  I  protest  against  the  degradation,"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Danforth. 

"To  degrade  your  mind,"  pursued  Mr.  Grahame,  answering 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

the  interruption  only  by  a  smile,  "  by  exercising  it  on  such 
homely  things  as  brewing  coffee  and  baking  cakes,  or  to  soil 
your  fair  hands  with  brooms  and  dusters." 

"  For  the  soil  of  the  hands  we  have  sparkling  rills,  and  for  the 
degradation  of  the  mind,  I,  like  Mr.  Danforth,  protest  against  it." 

"  But  how  can  you  make  your  protest  good?" 

"You  have  taught  me  that  there  is  no  degradation  in  labor, 
pursued  for  fair  and  right  ends,  and  that  where  the  end  is  noble, 
the  labor  becomes  ennobling." 

"  But  what  noble  ends  can  be  alleged  for  the  drudgery  of  do 
mestic  life?  I  am  translating  your  looks  into  language,"  said 
Mr.  Grahame,  turning  playfully  to  his  guest ;  "  correct  me  if  I  do 
not  read  them  rightly." 

"If  I  say  you  do,  I  fear  Miss  Grahame  will  think  them  very 
impertinent  looks." 

"  I  shall  not  complain  of  them  while  I  can  reply  to  them  so 
easily,"  said  Mary  gay ly.  "He  who  knows  how  much  a  well- 
ordered  household  contributes  to  the  cultivation  of  domestic  vir 
tues  and  family  affections,  will  not  think  a  woman  degraded  who 
sacrifices  somewhat  of  her  tastes  and  pleasures  to  the  deeper  hap 
piness  of  procuring  such  advantages  for  those  she  loves." 

"  But  is  not  that  state  of  society  preferable  in  which,  without 
her  personal  interference,  by  the  employment  of  those  who  have 
no  higher  tastes,  she  may  accomplish  the  same  object?" 

"  That  question  proves  that  you  do  not,  like  my  father,  desire 
to  see  the  working  and  the  thinking  classes  united.  You  seem 
to  propose  that  the  first  shall  ever  remain  our  hewers  of  wood 
and  drawers  of  water." 

"  Is  it  not  a  fact  that  there  have  been,  are,  and  always  will  be 
those  in  the  world  who  are  fitted  for  no  other  position  ?" 


120  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

"  That  there  are  and  always  have  been  such  persons,  I  ac 
knowledge  ;  but  when  labor  ceases  to  be  degrading,  because  it  is 
partaken  by  all,  may  we  not  hope  that  new  aspirations  will  be 
awakened  in  the  laborer — that  he  will  elevate  himself  in  the  scale 
of  being  when  he  feels  elevation  possible  ?" 

Mary  Grahame  spoke  with  generous  enthusiasm,  yet  with  a 
modest  gentleness  which  made  Horace  Danforth  desire  to  con 
tinue  the  argument. 

"Admitting  all  this,"  he  said,  "it  does  not  answer  my  ques 
tion,  which  was,  whether  you  did  not  prefer  that  state  of  society 
in  which  you  were  able  to  avail  yourself  of  the  services  of  such 
a  class." 

"  There  are  moments,  doubtless,  when  indolence  would  plead 
for  such  self-indulgence  ;  but  I  should  be  mortified  indeed,  were 
this  the  prevailing  temper  of  my  mind." 

"  Pardon  me  if  I  say  that  I  do  not  see  how  it  can  be  other 
wise — how  a  lady  of  Miss  Grahame's  refinement  and  taste  can 
be  pleased  with  the  employments,  for  instance,  to  which  Mr. 
Grahame  just  now  referred." 

"Not  pleased  with  them  in  themselves,  but  she  may  accept 
them,  may  she  not,  as  a  necessary  part  of  a  great  object  to  which 
she  has  devoted  herself?" 

"And  this  object? — but,  forgive  me.  The  interest  you  have 
awakened  in  the  subject,  and  your  kindness  in  answering  my 
questions,  make  me  an  encroacher,  I  fear,"  he  added,  as  he  marked 
the  heightened  color  with  which  Mary  glanced  at  her  father  as 
he  paused  for  her  answer. 

"  Not  at  all ;  but  I  speak  in  presence  of  my  master,  and  will 
refer  you  to  him,"  she  replied,  with  another  smiling  glance  at  her 
father. 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  121 

"You  see,"  said  Mr.  Grahame,  "that  even  in  these  wilds,  'the 
world's  dread  laugh'  retains  its  power.  Mary,  I  see,  is  afraid  of 
being  called  a  female  Quixote,  and  even  I  find  myself  disposed 
to  win  you  to  some  interest  in  my  object,  before  I  avow  it.  This 
I  think  I  can  best  do  by  a  sketch  of  the  circumstances  which  led 
to  its  adoption.  I  will  give  you  such  a  sketch,  therefore,  if  you 
will  promise  to  acquit  me  of  egotism  in  doing  so." 

"  That  I  will  readily  do.     I  shall  be  delighted  to  hear  it." 

"You  shall  have  it,  but  not  now;  for  I  see,  by  certain  cabal 
istic  signs,  known  only  to  the  initiated,  that  Mary  is  about  to 
leave  us  for  some  of  those  same  degrading  employments,  and  if 
you  will  take  a  ride  with  me,  I  will  relieve  you  from  all  danger 
of  contact  with  them,  and  will,  at  the  same  time,  show  you  some 
thing  of  our  neighborhood." 

The  proposal  was  of  course  accepted.  The  ride  embraced  a 
circuit  of  ten  miles,  in  which  they  passed  only  two  houses.  The 
first  of  these  was  built  with  an  apparent  regard  to  convenience 
and  comfort,  and  even  some  effort  at  adornment,  as  manifested  in 
the  climbing  plants  with  which  the  windows  were  draperied,  and 
the  flowers  which  adorned  the  little  court  in  front.  Mr.  Grahame 
stopped  before  the  gateway  of  this  court,  and  a  woman  of  coarse, 
rough  exterior,  though  scrupulously  clean,  came  out  to  speak  to 
him,  and  to  urge  his  alighting  and  entering  the  house  with  his 
friend.  This  Mr.  Grahame  declined;  he  had  only  stopped  to 
inquire  after  a  sick  child,  and  to  express  a  hope  that  her  husband's 
hay  had  turned  out  well. 

"Dreadful  fine,"  was  her  reply  to  the  last.     "I'm  sure  we  be 
much  obleeged  to  you  for  the  seed,  and  for  tellin'  Jim  how  to 
plant  it.     He  never  had  sich  hay  before." 
"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it.     Where  is  Lucy  ?" 


122  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

"Oh,  she's  off  to  school.  Tell  Miss  Mary  she's  gittin'  to  be 
'most  as  grand  a  reader  as  she  be.  And  yet  the  child's  willin' 
enough  to  work,  for  all." 

As  the  gentlemen  rode  on,  after  this  interview,  Mr.  Grahame 
said,  "  That  last  speech  expressed  one  of  the  greatest  difficulties 
against  which  we  had  to  contend  in  our  efforts  to  induce  our 
neighbors  to  give  to  their  children  some  of  the  advantages  of 
education.  They  were  afraid  '  larnin'  would  make  them  lazy.' 
They  were  of  your  opinion,  that  the  thinker  and  the  worker 
must  remain  of  different  classes." 

"I  was  surprised  to  hear  that  woman  speak  of  a  school.  I 
should  not  think  the  teacher  could  find  his  situation  very  profit 
able." 

"  He  is  one  who  has  regard  to  a  higher  reward  than  any 
earthly  one.  He  is  a  self-denying  Christian  missionary,  whom  I 
induced  to  settle  in  our  neighborhood.  He  preaches  on  the  Sab 
bath,  in  a  little  church  about  two  miles  from  my  house,  to  a  con 
gregation  of  about  twenty  adults,  and  twice  that  number  of 
children ;  and  during  the  week,  he  keeps  a  school  which  is  well 
attended  in  the  summer.  Some  of  his  earlier  pupils  are  already 
showing,  by  their  more  useful  and  happier  lives,  the  importance 
of  the  schoolmaster's  work  in  the  elevation  of  a  people." 

The  next  dwelling  they  approached  was  very  small  and 
mean-looking.  It  seemed  to  Horace  Danforth  to  contain  but 
one  apartment,  warmed  by  an  ill-constructed  clay  chimney,  and 
lighted  by  one  small,  square  window.  That  window,  however, 
was  not  only  sashed  and  glazed,  but  covered  with  a  plain  muslin 
curtain. 

"Here,"  said  Mr.  Grahame,  "lives  one  of  those  pupils  of 
whom  I  spoke  just  now.  He  has  commenced  life  with  nothing 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  123 

but  the  plot  of  ground  you  see,  and  having  a  wife  to  support,  he 
must  labor  hard,  yet  already  he  is  aiming  at  something  more  than 
the  supply  of  merely  physical  wants ;  and  I  doubt  not  he  will,  if 
he  lives  long  enough,  become  the  intelligent  and  wealthy  father 
of  a  well-educated  family." 

They  were  approaching  the  house  as  Mr.  Grahame  spoke. 
Near  it  was  a  small  field,  in  which  a  man  was  hoeing. 

"How  is  your  wife,  Martin?"  asked  Mr.  Grahame. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  sir,  she  is  quite  smart.  She's  been  getting 
better  ever  since  the  night  Miss  Mary  sat  up  with  her  last.  We 
say  she  always  brings  good  luck." 

"  And  how  are  your  potatoes  ?" 

"  How  could  they  help  but  be  good,  sir,  with  such  grand  seed 
as  you  gave  me  ?  Tell  Miss  Mary,  if  you  please,  sir,  that  the 
rose-tree  is  growing  finely,  and  that  as  soon  as  I  can  get  time  to 
put  up  the  fence,  Sally  is  to  have  the  flower-garden  she  talked 
about." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  Martin ;  if  you  are  brisk  you  may  have 
some  flowers  yet  before  frost.  I  will  bring  you  some  seeds  when 
I  come  next." 

"Do  you  procure  your  seeds  from  the  East,  or  is  it  the  result 
of  your  superior  cultivation,  that  you  are  able  thus  to  supply 
your  neighbors?"  asked  Horace  Danforth  of  Mr.  Grahame,  as 
they  rode  on. 

"  The  potatoes  were  from  my  own  field,  raised  from  the  seed 
two  years  ago.  The  grass  and  flower  seeds  were  from  my  agent 
at  the  East.  These  little  favors  win  for  my  daughter  and  myself 
considerable  influence  over  our  neighbors,  and  thus  facilitate  our 
attainment  of  the  object  for  which  we  have  pitched  our  tent  in 
the  wilderness,  and  accepted  those  labors  which  you  justly  regard 
as  distasteful  in  themselves." 


124  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

The  return  home  of  Mr.  Graliame  and  his  visitor,  their  dinner 
and  afternoon  engagements,  offer  nothing  worthy  of  our  notice. 
It  was  not  till  the  labors  of  the  day  had  been  concluded,  and  the 
little  party  were  gathered  again  before  a  cheerful  fire  in  the 
parlor,  that  the  subject  of  the  morning's  conversation  was  re 
sumed.  As  Mary  entered  from  the  supper-room,  bringing  with 
her  a  little  basket  of  needle-work,  Horace  Danforth  asked  if  he 
might  not  now  hope  to  receive  the  promised  sketch. 

"  I  will  give  it  to  you  with  pleasure  when  I  have  had  my 
evening  song  from  Mary,"  said  Mr.  Grahame. 

Opening  the  piano  for  his  young  hostess,  Horace  Danforth 
stood  beside  her  as  she  sang,  but  he  forgot  to  turn  the  leaves  of 
the  music  before  her  as  he  listened  once  again  to  a  rich  and  culti 
vated  voice,  accompanied  by  a  fine  instrument,  touched  by  a 
skilful  hand.  As  the  sweet  and  well-remembered  strains  fell  on 
his  ear,  he  closed  his  eyes  and  gave  the  reins  to  fancy.  The 
loved  and  lost  gathered  around  him,  and  it  was  with  a  strange, 
dream-like  feeling  that,  as  the  sweet  sounds  ceased,  and  Mary 
arose  from  the  piano,  he  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  around  upon 
the  rough  walls  and  simple  furniture  of  his  present  abode. 

"  It  is  now  nearly  nineteen  years,"  began  Mr.  Grahame,  when 
his  daughter  and  guest  had  resumed  their  seats  near  him,  "since, 
crushed  in  spirit,  I  turned  from  the  grave  in  which  I  had  laid  my 
chief  earthly  blessing,  to  wander  'any  where,  any  where  out  of 
that  world'  which  had  a  few  weeks  before  been  bright  and  joyous 
to  me,  but  which  I  was  now  ready  to  pronounce  a  desolate  waste. 
The  desire  to  avoid  society  made  me  turn  westward,  and  nearly 
one  hundred  miles  east  of  our  present  residence  I  found  myself 
in  the  midst  of  a  people  without  churches,  without  schools,  rude 
in  appearance  and  in  manners.  Absorbed  in  the  destruction  of 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  125 

my  own  selfish  happiness,  I  might  have  passed  from  among  them 
without  knowing  that  disease  was  adding  its  pangs  to  those 
inflicted  by  want,  ignorance,  and  superstition,  had  not  a  mother 
in  the  agony  of  parting  from  her  first-born,  looking  hither  and 
thither  for  help,  turned  her  eyes  entreatingly  upon  the  stranger. 
I  had  once  studied  medicine,  though  regarding  the  profession,  as 
our  young  men  too  often  do,  merely  as  a  means  of  personal  ag 
grandizement,  and  having  received  just  at  the  completion  of  my 
studies  an  accession  of  fortune,  which  removed  all  pecuniary  ne 
cessity  to  exertion  on  my  own  part,  I  had  never  practised  it,  nor 
indeed  obtained  the  diploma  necessary  to  its  practice.  Now, 
however,  I  endeavored  to  make  myself  master  of  the  peculiar 
features  of  the  epidemic  under  which  the  child  was  suffering,  and 
with  the  aid  of  a  small  store  of  medicines  which  my  good  sister  had 
insisted  on  my  taking  with  me,  and  a  rigid  enforcement  of  some 
of  the  simplest  rules  of  diet  and  regimen,  I  had  the  happiness  of 
seeing  the  child  in  a  few  days  out  of  danger,  and  of  receiving  the 
mother's  rapturous  thanks.  That  moment  gave  me  the  first  gleam 
of  happiness  I  had  known  for  months,  and  disposed  me  to  listen 
to  the  entreaties  of  the  poor  creatures  who  came  from  far  and 
near  to  entreat  the  aid  of  the  Doctor,  as  they  persisted  in  calling 
me,  notwithstanding  my  repeated  assurances  that  I  had  no  right 
to  the  title.  I  spent  weeks  in  that  neighborhood,  and  there  I 
was  born  to  a  new  life.  Till  that  time  I  had  lived  to  myself,  and 
when  that  in  which  I  had  centered  my  earthly  joy  was  snatched 
from  me  by  death,  I  had  felt  that  life  had  nothing  left  for  me ; 
but  now  I  saw  that  while  there  were  sentient  beings  in  the  uni 
verse  to  serve,  and  a  glorious  and  ever-blessed  Father  presiding 
over  that  universe  and  smiling  on  such  service,  life  could  not  be 
divested  of  joy.  Under  the  influence  of  such  views  my  plans  for 


126  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

the  future  were  formed,  nor  have  I  ever  seen  reason  to  change  or 
to  regret  them.  Every  where  the  Christian  religion  teaches  the 
same  precepts,  but  not  every  where  is  it  equally  easy  to  see  the 
way  in  which  those  precepts  may  be  obeyed ;  every  where  it  is 
true,  as  a  distinguished  writer  of  your  own  land  has  said, 
'  Blessed  is  the  man  who  has  found  his  work' — let  him  seek  no 
other  blessedness  ;'  but  not  every  where  is  it  equally  easy  to  see 
where  our  work  lies.  Here,  in  America,  the  partition-walls 
which  stand  elsewhere  as  a  remnant  of  the  old  feudalism,  have 
been  broken  down ;  every  man  is  irresistibly  pressed  into  contact 
with  his  neighbors — he  cannot  shut  his  eyes  to  their  wants — he 
cannot  stop  his  ears  against  their  cries.  In  America,  too,  every  man, 
as  I  have  already  said,  must  be  a  worker — or,  if  he  live  an  idler,  it 
must  be  on  that  which  his  father  gained  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow, 
and  he  leaves  his  children  to  enslaving  toil,  or  more  enslaving 
dependence.  Here  the  man  of  pleasure,  the  idler  of  either  sex, 
is  a  foreign  exotic  which  finds  no  nourishment  in  our  soil,  no 
shelter  from  our  institutions — which  is  out  of  harmony  with  our 
social  life,  and  must  ever  be  marked  by  the  innate  vulgarity  of 
unsustained  pretension.  Therefore  it  is  comparatively  easy  for 
us  to  hold  out  the  hand  of  love  to  our  brethren,  sinking  and 
suffering  at  our  very  side,  and  to  teach  them  that  there  is  no 
natural  inalienable  connection  between  labor  and  coarseness, 
ignorance  and  servility  ;  that  man,  though  compelled  to  win  his 
bread  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  may  still  enjoy  all  those  graceful 
amenities  of  which  woman  was  the  type  in  Paradise  and  is  the 
promoter  here  ;  that  the  light  of  knowledge  and  the  divine  light 
of  faith  may  still  cheer  him  in  his  labors  and  guide  him  to  his 
rest.  It  seems  to  me  that  to  bring  out  these  principles  fairly  to 
the  world's  perception,  is  the  mission  to  which  America  has  been 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  127 

especially  appointed — is  that  for  which  Americans  should  live ; 
and  to  this  I  have  accordingly  devoted  myself.  For  this  I  pur 
chased  my  present  property — for  this  I  determined,  while  allow 
ing  myself  and  my  daughter  all  the  comforts  of  life,  to  dispense 
with  many  of  those  luxuries  to  which  my  fortune  might  have 
seemed  to  entitle  us,  lest  I  should  separate  myself  too  far  from 
those  I  would  aid.  Here  I  have  spent  seventeen  years  of  life, 
happy  in  my  work,  and  happier  in  the  conviction  that  it  has  not 
been  in  vain." 

As  Mr.  Grahame  paused,  Horace  Danforth  turned  to  Mary 
Grahame.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him.  They  seemed  to 
challenge  his  admiration  for  her  father,  in  whose  hand  her  own 
was  clasped,  as  if  she  would  thus  intimate  the  perfect  accordance 
of  her  feelings  with  his. 

"  And  this,  then,"  he  said  to  her,  " is  your  object?" 

"  It  is." 

"An  object  to  which  you  were  devoted  by  your  father  in 
your  infancy  ?" 

"  And  which  I  have  since  adopted  on  my  own  intelligent  con 
viction,"  said  Mary  earnestly,  losing  all  timidity  in  a  glow  of  that 
generous  enthusiasm  which  sits  so  gracefully  on  a  gentle  woman. 

There  was  silence  in  the  little  circle — silence  with  all :  with 
one,  thought  was  rapidly  passing  down  the  long  vista  of  the  past, 
and  pointing  the  awakened  mind  to  the  fact  that  elsewhere  than 
in  America  was  there  ignorance  to  be  enlightened  and  want  to 
be  relieved — that  not  here  only  did  Christianity  teach  that  man 
should  live  not  unto  himself,  and  that  he  should  love  his  neigh 
bor  as  himself. 

The  thoughts  and  feelings  aroused  on  that  evening  colored 
the  whole  future  destiny  of  Horace  Danforth.  Ere  another  day 


128  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

had  passed,  lie  liad  confided  to  his  host  so  much  of  his  history  as 
proved  him  to  be  an  aimless  and  almost  unconnected  wanderer 
on  the  earth,  with  a  prospect  of  a  fortune  which,  unequal  to  the 
demands  of  a  man  of  fashion  in  England,  would  give  to  a  worker 
in  America  great  influence  for  good  or  for  evil — as  the  per 
sonal  property  of  Sir  Thomas  Maitland  could  not,  as  Horace 
Danforth  was  well  aware,  be  valued  at  less  than  $50,000.  With 
that  rapid  decision  that  had  ever  marked  his  movements,  the 
young  Englishman  determined  to  purchase  land  in  the  neighbor 
hood  of  Mr.  Grahame,  there  to  rear  his  future  home,  and  to  de 
vote  his  life  to  the  like  noble  purposes.  The  land  was  purchased, 
the  site  for  the  house  was  selected  and  marked  out — but  the 
house  was  never  built — for  ere  that  had  been  accomplished 
Horace  Danforth  discovered  that  the  companionship  of  a  culti 
vated  woman  was  essential  to  his  views  of  "  Life  in  America," 
and  that  Mary  Grahame  was  exactly  the  embodiment  of  that 
youthful  vision  which  he  had  sought  in  vain  elsewhere ;  for  she 
united  the  delicacy  and  refined  grace,  with  the  intelligent  mind, 
the  active  affections  and  energetic  will,  which  were  necessary  at 
once  to  please  his  fancy  and  satisfy  his  heart.  Mary  Grahame 
could  not  consent  to  leave  her  father  to  a  lonely  home,  but  yet 
she  could  not  deny  that  it  would  be  a  sad  home  to  her  if  deprived 
of  the  society  of  him  whose  intelligent  and  varied  converse  and 
manly  tenderness  had  lately  formed  the  chief  charm  of  her  exist 
ence.  There  was  but  one  way  of  reconciling  these  conflicting 
claims.  Horace  Danforth  must  live  with  Mr.  Grahame,  and  so 
he  did,  having  first  obtained  that  gentleman's  permission  to 
enlarge  his  house,  and  to  furnish  it  with  some  of  those  inven 
tions  by  which  art  has  so  greatly  lightened  domestic  labor,  and 
which  had  been  made  familiar  to  him  by  his  life  abroad. 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  129 

Six  months  had  been  spent  in  this  abode — six  months  of  an 
existence  of  joy  and  love,  untroubled  as  it  could  be  to  those  who 
were  yet  dwellers  upon  earth — six  months  in  which  the  fastidious 
and  world-wearied  man  learned  the  secret  of  true  peace  in  a  life 
devoted  to  useful  and  benevolent  objects — when  a  most  unex 
pected  visitor  arrived  in  the  person  of  Sir  Edward  Maitland — no, 
not  Sir  Edward.  He  came  to  announce  that  to  this  title  he  had 
no  right.  That  he  had  remained  himself,  and  suffered  his  cousin 
to  remain  so  long  in  ignorance  on  this  point,  had  been  the  result 
of  no  want  of  effort  to  arrive  at  the  truth,  still  less  of  any  linger 
ing  love  of  the  honors  forced  upon  him.  He  had  never  assumed 
the  title,  nor  suffered  the  secret  of  his  supposed  change  of  circum 
stances  to  be  known  beyond  himself  and  the  lawyer  to  whom  his 
cousin  Horace  had  revealed  it.  This  lawyer,  it  may  be  remem 
bered,  had  lately  succeeded  in  the  care  of  the  Maitland  estate  to 
an  uncle,  who  had  been  compelled  by  the  infirmities  of  advancing 
age  to  retire  from  business.  The  old  man  was  absent  from  Eng 
land  when  Horace  Danforth  left  it,  and  it  was  not  till  his  return 
that  full  satisfaction  on  the  subject  had  been  obtained,  as  it  was 
judged  unwise  by  Mr.  Decker  to  awaken  public  attention  by 
investigations  which  his  uncle's  return  would  probably  render 
unnecessary.  When  he  did  return,  and  the  subject  was  cautiously 
unfolded  to  him,  he  spent  many  minutes  in  pishing  and  pshawing 
at  the  folly  and  impetuosity  of  young  Baronets,  who,  knowing 
nothing  of  the  tenure  on  which  they  hold  their  estates,  cannot  at 
least  wait  till  they  consult  wiser  people  before  they  throw  them 
away.  The  entail  of  nearly  two  centuries  ago,  had,  it  seems, 
been  set  aside  in  little  more  than  one,  by  an  improvident  father 
and  son,  who  had  in  fact  greatly  diminished  the  very  fine  prop 
erty  so  entailed,  though  most  of  it  had  been  since  recovered  by 
9 


130  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

the  care  of  their  successors.  The  intelligence  thus  conveyed  to 
him  who  was  now  once  more  Sir  Horace  Danforth  Maitland,  was 
of  mingled  sweet  and  bitter.  He  could  not  be  insensible  to  the 
joy  of  returning  to  the  home  of  his  childhood  and  the  people 
among  whom  he  had  grown  to  manhood,  yet  neither  could  he 
leave,  without  tender  regrets,  that  in  which  he  had  first  learned 
to  love,  and  to  live  a  true,  a  noble,  and  a  happy  life. 

When  Mary  was  first  saluted  as  Lady  Maitland  by  Edward, 
she  turned  a  glance  of  inquiry  upon  her  husband  and  then  upon 
her  father,  for  both  were  present  by  previous  arrangement;  and 
as  she  read  a  confirmation  of  the  fact  in  their  smiling  faces,  the 
color  faded  from  hers,  and  after  a  moment's  vain  effort  to  contend 
against  her  .painful  emotion,  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  Your  father  has  promised  to  spend  his  life  with  us,  dearest," 
said  Sir  Horace  Maitland,  as  he  threw  his  arm  around  her  and 
drew  her  to  his  side. 

"  But  this  dear  home,"  sobbed  Mary ;  "  this  people,  for  whom 
and  with  whom  we  have  lived  so  happily." 

"  All  that  made  this  home  dear,  my  daughter,  you  will  take 
with  you  to  another  home." 

"  And  there,  too,"  interposed  Sir  Horace,  "  my  Mary  will  find 
a  people  to  enlighten  and  to  bless,  over  whom  her  influence  will 
be  unbounded,  and  to  whom  she  will  prove  an  angel  of  conso 
lation." 

"  And  can  you  carry  your  American  life  to  your  English 
home?"  she  asked  of  her  husband,  smiling  through  her  tears. 

"As  much  of  it  as  is  independent  of  outward  circumstances, 
Mary — its  spirit,  its  amis ;  for  they  belong  to  a  Christian  life,  and 
that  I  hope,  by  God's  blessing,  to  live  henceforth,  wherever  I 
may  be." 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  131 

"And  what  will  become  of  all  our  projected  improvements 
here?"  she  inquired  of  her  father. 

"  I  shall  not  leave  this  place  myself,  Mary,  till  I  can  find 
some  one  like-minded,  who  will  take  our  place  and  do  our  work. 
To  such  a  man  I  will  sell  the  property  on  such  terms  as  he  can 
afford,  or  if  he  cannot  buy,  he  shall  farm  it  for  me." 

This  last  was  the  arrangement  made  with  one  whom  Mr. 
Grahame  had  known  in  early  life,  and  who  had  always  been  dis 
tinguished  by  true  Christian  uprightness  and  benevolence.  The 
terms  offered  by  Mr.  Grahame  to  this  gentleman  were  such,  that 
the  conscientious  and  excellent  agent  became  in  a  few  years  the 
proprietor ;  and  under  his  fostering  care,  all  those  plans  for  the 
intellectual  and  moral  improvement  of  the  neighborhood  which 
had  been  so  happily  commenced,  were  matured  and  perfected. 

It  was  nearly  a  year  after  the  departure  of  his  children  before 
Mr.  Grahame  was  able  to  join  them  at  Maitland  Park.  With  his 
arrival  Mary  felt  that  her  cup  of  joy  was  full.  It  had  been  with 
a  trembling  heart  that  she  assumed  the  brilliant  position  to  which 
Providence  had  conducted  her ;  not  that  she  feared  the  judgment 
of  man :  her  fear  had  been  lest  in  the  midst  of  abundance  she 
should  forget  the  hand  that  fed  her — lest  amid  the  fascinations  of 
an  intellectual  and  polished  society,  she  should  forget  the  thick 
darkness  which  covered  so  many  immortal  minds  around  her. 
But  already  she  had  cast  aside  this  unworthy  fear,  unworthy  of 
Him  in  whom  is  the  Christian's  strength. 

The  early  dream  of  the  proprietor  of  Maitland  Park  is  fulfilled. 
The  softening  and  refining  presence  of  woman  diffuses  a  new 
charm  over  its  social  life,  and  while  his  Mary  is  to  his  tenantry 
what  he  himself  predicted,  an  angel  of  consolation,  she  is  to  him 
a  faithful  co-worker  in  all  that  may  advance  the  reign  of  peace 
and  righteousness,  of  intelligence  and  joy,  throughout  the  world. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  SABBATH  in  the  country,  with  a  Sabbath  quiet  in  the  air,  and 
the  cheerful  sunlight  beaming  like  the  smile  of  Heaven  on  the 
earth — how  beautiful  it  is !  Donaldson  Manor  is  but  a  short 
walk  from  the  church  whose  white  spire  gleams  up  amid  the 
dark  grove  of  pines  on  our  left ;  at  least,  it  is  but  a  short  walk  in 
summer,  when  we  can  approach  it  through  the  flowery  lanes 
which  separate  Col.  Donaldson's  fields  from  those  of  his  next 
neighbor,  Mr.  Manly.  Now,  however,  the  walk  is  impracticable, 
and  all  the  sleighs  were  yesterday  morning  in  requisition,  to 
transport  the  family  and  their  visitors  to  their  place  of  worship. 
I  was  a  little  afraid  that  the  merry  music  of  the  sleigh-bells  and 
the  rapid  drive  through  the  clear  air  might  make  our  young 
people's  blood  dance  too  briskly — that  they  would  be  unable  to 
preserve  that  sobriety  of  manner  becoming  those  who  are  about 
professedly  to  engage  in  the  worship  of  Him  who  inhabiteth 
Eternity.  I  was  gratified,  however,  to  perceive  that  they  all  had 
good  feeling  or  good  taste  enough  to  preserve,  throughout  their 
drive  and  the  services  which  followed  it,  a  quiet  and  reverent 
demeanor.  It  may  seem  strange  to  some,  that  I  should  charac 
terize  this  as  a  possible  effect  of  "  good  taste ;"  but  in  my  opinion, 
he  who  does  not  pay  the  tribute  at  least  of  outward  respect  to 
this  holy  day,  is  incapable  not  only  of  that  high,  spiritual  com- 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

munion  which  brings  man  near  to  his  Creator,  but  of  that  tender 
sympathy  which  binds  him  to  his  fellow-creatures,  or  even  of 
that  poetic  taste  which  would  place  his  soul  in  harmony  with  ex 
ternal  nature.  Let  it  not  be  thought  that  I  would  have  this  day 
of  blessing  to  the  world  regarded  with  a  cynical  severity,  or  that 
the  quietness  and  the  reverence  of  which  I  speak  is  at  all  akin  to 
sadness.  Were  not  cheerfulness,  in  my  opinion,  a  part  of  godli 
ness,  I  should  say  of  it  as  some  one  has  said  of  cleanliness,  that 
it  is  next  to  godliness.  Like  my  favorite,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Barrett 
Browning, 

I  think  we  are  too  ready  with  complaint 
In  this  fair  world  of  God's. 

and  like  her,  I  would  utter  to  all  the  exhortation, 

Let  us  leave  the  shame  and  sin 
Of  taking  vainly,  in  a  plaintive  mood, 
The  holy  name  of  Grief! — holy  herein, 
That,  by  the  grief  of  ONE,  came  all  our  good. 

But  cheerfulness,  so  far  from  being  incompatible  with,  seems 
to  me  inseparable  from  that  true  worship  which  is  the  best  source 
of  the  Sabbath  seriousness  I  am  advocating. 

The  remarks  of  the  preacher  were  quite  in  unison  with  these 
thoughts,  and  pleased  me  so  much  that,  were  it  admissible,  I 
should  be  delighted  to  dignify  my  pages  with  them.  By  a  few 
vivid  touches,  in  language  simple,  yet  beautiful,  he  sketched  for 
us  the  first  Sabbath  amid  the  living  springs  and  fadeless  bloom 
and  verdant  shades  of  Paradise,  when  sinless  man  communed 
with  his  Maker  and  his  Father,  not  through  the  poor  symbols  of 
a  ceremonial  worship,  but  face  to  face,  as  a  man  talketh  with  his 


134:  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

friend.  But  all  I  would  say  of  the  Sabbath  has  been  said  a  thou 
sand  times  better  than  I  could  say  it,  by  good  George  Herbert, 
whose  words  I  am  sure  I  need  not  apologize  for  introducing  here. 


O  DAY  most  calm,  most  bright ! 
The  fruit  of  this,  the  next  world's  bud ; 
Th'  indorsement  of  supreme  delight, 
Writ  by  a  friend,  and  with  his  blood ; 
The  couch  of  time ;  care's  balm  and  bay : 
The  week  were  dark,  but  for  thy  light ; 

Thy  torch  doth  show  the  way. 

The  other  days  and  thou 
Make  up  one  man ;  whose  face  thou  art, 
Knocking  at  heaven  with  thy  brow ; 
The  worky  days  are  the  back-part ; 
The  burden  of  the  week  lies  there, 
Making  the  whole  to  stoop  and  bow, 
Till  thy  release  appear. 

Man  had  straight  forward  gone 
To  endless  death.     But  thou  dost  pull 
And  turn  us  round,  to  look  on  One, 
Whom,  if  we  were  not  very  dull, 
We  could  not  choose  but  look  on  still ; 
Since  there  is  no  place  so  alone, 

The  which  He  doth  not  fill. 

Sundays  the  pillars  are 
On  which  Heaven's  palace  arched  lies : 
The  other  days  fill  up  the  spare 
And  hollow  room  with  vanities. 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  135 

They  are  the  fruitful  bed  and  borders, 
In  God's  rich  garden ;  that  is  bare, 

Which  parts  their  ranks  and  orders. 

The  Sundays  of  man's  life, 
Threaded  together  on  time's  string, 
Make  bracelets  to  adorn  the  wife 
Of  the  eternal,  glorious  King. 
On  Sunday,  heaven's  gate  stands  ope; 
Blessings  are  plentiful  and  rife ; 

More  plentiful  than  hope. 

This  day  my  Saviour  rose, 
And  did  inclose  this  light  for  His : 
That,  as  each  beast  his  manger  knows, 
Man  might  not  of  his  fodder  miss. 
Christ  hath  took  in  this  piece  of  ground, 
And  made  a  garden  there,  for  those 

Who  want  herbs  for  their  wound. 

The  Rest  of  our  creation 
Our  great  Redeemer  did  remove, 
With  the  same  shake  which,  at  his  passion, 
Did  th'  earth,  and  all  things  with  it,  move. 
As  Samson  bore  the  doors  away, 
Christ's  hands,  though  nail'd,  wrought  our  salvation, 

And  did  unhinge  that  day. 

The  brightness  of  that  day 
We  sullied,  by  our  foul  offence ; 
Wherefore  that  robe  we  cast  away, 
Having  a  new  at  his  expense, 
Whose  drops  of  blood  paid  the  full  price 
That  was  required,  to  make  us  gay, 

And  fit  for  paradise. 


136  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

Thou  art  a  day  of  mirth  : 
And,  where  the  week-days  trail  on  ground, 
Thy  flight  is  higher,  as  thy  birth. 
Oh,  let  me  take  thee  at  the  bound, 
Leaping  with  thee  from  seven  to  seven  ; 
Till  that  we  both,  being  tossed  from  earth, 

Fly  hand  in  hand  to  Heaven  ! 

It  is  the  custom  at  Donaldson  Manor  to  close  the  Sabbath 
evening  with  sacred  music.  Annie,  at  her  father's  request,  played 
while  we  all  sung  his  favorite  evening  hymn,  which  I  here 
transcribe. 


FATHER  !  by  Thy  love  and  power, 
Comes  again  the  evening  hour  ; 
Light  has  vanished,  labors  cease, 
Weary  creatures  rest,  in  peace. 
Thou,  whose  genial  dews  distil 

On  the  lowliest  weed  that  grows, 
Father  !  guard  our  couch  from  ill, 

Lull  thy  creatures  to  repose. 
We  to  Thee  ourselves  resign, 
Let  our  latest  thoughts  be  Thine. 

Saviour  !  to  thy  Father  bear 
This  our  feeble  evening  prayer; 
Thou  hast  seen  how  oft  to-day 
We,  like  sheep,  have  gone  astray  ; 
Worldly  thoughts  and  thoughts  of  pride, 

Wishes  to  Thy  cross  untrue, 
Secret  faults  and  undescried 

Meet  Thy  spirit-piercing  view. 
Blessed  Saviour  !  yet,  through  Thee, 
Pray  that  these  may  pardoned  be. 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  137 

Holy  Spirit !     Breath  of  balm ! 
Breathe  on  us  in  evening's  calm. 
Yet  awhile  before  we  sleep, 
We  with  Thee  will  vigils  keep ; 
Lead  us  on  our  sins  to  muse, 

Give  us  truest  penitence, 
Then  the  love  of  God  infuse, 

Kindling  humblest  confidence. 
Melt  our  spirits,  mould  our  will, 
Soften,  strengthen,  comfort,  still. 

Blessed  Trinity !  be  near 
Through  the  hours  of  darkness  drear. 
When  the  help  of  man  is  far, 
Ye  more  clearly  present  are. 
Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost ! 

Watch  o'er  our  defenceless  heads, 
Let  your  angels'  guardian  host 

Keep  all  evil  from  our  beds, 
Till  the  flood  of  morning  rays 
Wake  us  to  a  song  of  praise.* 

*  I  know  not  the  author  of  this  beautiful  hymn.     It  will  be  found  in  a  col 
lection  of  great  merit,  called  "  Songs  of  the  Night." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

MR.  ARLINGTON  is  a  gem  of  the  first  water.  He  reveals  every 
day  some  new  trait  of  interest  or  agreeableness.  I  saw  immedi 
ately  that  he  was  a  man  of  fine  taste ;  I  have  since  learned  to 
respect  him  as  a  man  of  enlarged  intellect  and  earnest  feeling ; 
and  now  I  am  just  beginning  to  discover  that  he  is  master  of  all 
those  agremens  which  make  the  charm  of  general  society,  and 
that  he  might  become  the  "glass  of  fashion,"  if  he  had  not  a  mind 
elevated  too  far  above  such  a  petty  ambition.  This  last  observa 
tion  has  been  called  forth  by  mere  trifles,  yet  trifles  so  prettily 
done,  with  such  ease  and  grace,  as  to  justify  the  conclusion.  He 
is  apt  at  illustration  and  application,  and  has  a  fine  memory, 
stored  brimful  of  entertaining  anecdotes,  snatches  of  poetry,  and 
those  thousand  nothings  which  tell  for  so  much  in  society,  and 
which  it  is  so  pleasant  to  find  combined  with  much  else  that  is 
valuable.  A  few  evenings  since,  he  kept  Annie  and  me  in  the 
library,  with  his  agreeable  talk,  till  so  late  an  hour,  that  Col.  Don 
aldson,  who  is  the  least  bit  of  a  martinet  in  his  own  family,  gave 
some  very  intelligible  hints  to  us  the  next  morning,  at  breakfast, 
on  the  value  of  early  hours.  With  a  readiness  and  grace  which 
I  never  saw  surpassed,  Mr.  Arlington  turned  to  us  with  the  ex 
quisite  apology  of  the  poet  for  a  like  fault, 


TJSJE    ^JLS 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  139 

"  I  stayed  too  late ;  forgive  the  crime ; 

Unheeded  flew  the  hours. 
Unnoted  falls  the  foot  of  time, 
Which  only  treads  on  flowers." 

This  evening  again,  as  he  placed  a  candle-screen  before  Annie, 
who,  having  a  headache,  found  the  light  oppressive,  he  said  with 
a  graceful  mixture  of  play  and  earnest,  impossible  to  describe, 

"  Ah,  lady !  if  that  taper's  blaze 
Requires  a  screen  to  blunt  its  rays, 
What  screen,  not  formed  by  art  divine, 
Shall  shield  us  from  those  orbs  of  thine  ? 

"  But  oh !  let  nothing  intervene 
Our  hearts  and  those  bright  suns  between ; 
"Pis  bliss,  like  the  bewildered  fly 
To  flutter  round,  though  sure  to  die." 

As  the  others  were  engaged  in  very  earnest  conversation  at 
the  time,  and  I  was  reading,  he  probably  expected  to  be  heard 
only  by  her  to  whom  he  addressed  himself;  but  a  little  romance, 
such  as  that  of  Annie  and  Mr.  Arlington,  acted  before  me,  inter 
ests  me  far  more  than  any  book,  and  -I  brought  a  bright  blush 
to  Annie's  cheek  and  a  conscious  smile  to  his  lip,  by  asking, 
"Where  did  you  find  those  very  apposite  lines?  I  do  not  re 
member  to  have  seen  them." 

"Probably  not,  as  they  have  never  been  published.  They 
were  addressed  by  Anthony  Bleecker,  of  New- York,  to  a  belle 
of  his  day,  and  the  lady  for  whose  sake,  it  is  whispered,  he  lived 
and  died  a  bachelor." 

Our  colloquy  was  here  interrupted  by  Eobert  Dudley,  who 


140  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

wanted  to  know  if  we  were  to  have  no  story  this  evening.  Rob- 
ert  was  a  great  lover  of  stories.  "  Ask  Mr.  Arlington,  Eobert," 
said  I,  "  I  have  given  three  stories  to  his  one  already." 

"  Aunt  Nancy,"  said  Mr.  Arlington,  who  had  already  begun 
to  give  me  the  affectionate  cognomen  by  which  I  was  always 
addressed  at  Donaldson  Manor,  "  Aunt  Nancy  has  stories  without 
number,  written  and  ready  for  demand,  but  my  portfolio  furnishes 
only  rude  pencillings,  or  at  best,  a  crayon  sketch." 

"  Will  you  show  them  to  us,  Mr.  Arlington  ?"  asked  the  perse 
vering  Robert,  who  stood  beside  him,  portfolio  in  hand.  "May 
I  draw  one  out,  as  Aunt  Annie  did  the  other  evening ;  and  will 
you  tell  us  about  it?" 

Mr.  Arlington,  with  good-humored  playfulness,  consented, 
and  Robert  drew  from  the  portfolio  a  drawing,  of  which  the 
reader  will  find  a  faithful  copy  in  the  engraving  immediately  pre 
ceding  this  chapter. 

"  That  man,"  said  I,  as  I  looked  at  the  honest  face  of  the  rude, 
weather-beaten  fisherman,  "  looks  as  if  he  had  passed  through  ad 
venturous  scenes,  and  might  have  many  a  history  to  tell." 

"  He  did  not  tell  them  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Arlington.  "  I  know 
nothing  more  of  them  than  that  paper  reveals.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  the  woman  and  child  were  visiting,  for  the  first  time,  the 
ocean,  whose  booming  sound  was  to  the  fisherman  as  the  voice 
of  home.  He  was  probably  introducing  them  to  its  wonders — re 
vealing  to  them  the  mysteries  which  awaken  the  superstition  of 
the  vulgar  and  the  poetry  of  the  cultivated  imagination.  He  has 
given  her  a  sea-shell,  and  she  is  listening  for  the  first  time  to  its 
low,  strange  music." 

"  And  is  that  all  ?"  asked  Robert,  when  Mr.  Arlington  ceased 
speaking. 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

"All  I  know,  Eobert,"  lie  answered,  with  a  smile  at  the 
boy's  earnestness. 

"But  did  you  never  go  fishing  yourself,  Mr.  Arlington?" 

"  Not  often,  Eobert ;  I  like  more  active  sports  better — 
hunting — " 

"Ah!  do  tell  us  about  your  hunting,  Mr.  Arlington;  you 
must  have  had  some  adventures  in  hunting  in  those  great  West 
ern  forests  I  have  heard  you  speak  of." 

"  The  greatest  adventure  I  ever  had,  Eobert,"  said  Mr.  Ar 
lington,  "was  in  an  Eastern  forest,  and  when  I  was  the  hunted, 
not  the  hunter" 

"  Indians,  Mr.  Arlington — was  it  Indians  that  hunted  you  ?" 

"  No,  Eobert ;  my  hunters  were  wolves." 

"  Oh !  pray  tell  us  about  it,  Mr.  Arlington,  will  you  not  ?" 

"Certainly,  with  the  ladies'  permission." 

The  ladies'  permission  was  soon  obtained,  and  our  little  party 
listened  with  the  deepest  interest  to  the  thrilling  recital  which  I 
have  called 


DURING-  the  winter  of  1844,  being  engaged  in  the  northern  part 
of  Maine,  I  had  much  leisure  to  devote  to  the  wild  sports  of  a 
new  country.  To  none  of  these  was  I  more  passionately  addicted 
than  to  skating.  The  deep  and  sequestered  lakes  of  this  State, 
frozen  by  the  intense  cold  of  a  Northern  winter,  present  a  wide 

*  For  this  sketch,  which  for  beauty  of  description,  and  wild,  thrilling  interest, 
will  compare  favorably  with  any  known  to  me,  I  am  indebted  to  my  friend,  Mr. 
C.  Whitehead.  M.  J.  Me. 


142  EVENENGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

field  to  the  lovers  of  this  pastime.  Often  would  I  bind  on  my 
skates,  and  glide  away  up  the  glittering  river,  and  wind  each, 
mazy  streamlet  that  flowed  beneath  its  fetters  on  towards  the  pa 
rent  ocean,  forgetting  all  the  while  time  and  distance  in  the 
luxurious  sense  of  the  gliding  motion — thinking  of  nothing  in 
the  easy  flight,  but  rather  dreaming,  as  I  looked  through  the 
transparent  ice  at  the  long  weeds  and  cresses  that  nodded  in  the 
current  beneath,  and  seemed  wrestling  with  the  waves  to  let  them 
go ;  or  I  would  follow  on  the  track  of  some  fox  or  otter,  and  run 
my  skate  along  the  mark  he  had  left  with  his  dragging  tail  until 
the  trail  would  enter  the  woods.  Sometimes  these  excursions 
were  made  by  moonlight,  and  it  was  on  one  of  these  occasions 
that  I  had  a  rencontre,  which  even  now,  with  kind  faces  around 
me,  I  cannot  recall  without  a  nervous  looking- over-my -shoulder 
feeling. 

I  had  left  my  friend's  house  one  evening  just  before  dusk, 
with  the  intention  of  skating  a  short  distance  up  the  noble  Ken- 
nebec,  which  glided  directly  before  the  door.  The  night  was 
beautifully  clear.  A  peerless  moon  rode  through  an  occasional 
fleecy  cloud,  and  stars  twinkled  from  the  sky  and  from  every 
frost-covered  tree  in  millions.  Your  mind  would  wonder  at  the 
light  that  came  glinting  from  ice,  and  snow-wreath,  and  incrusted 
branches,  as  the  eye  followed  for  miles  the  broad  gleam  of  the 
Kennebec,  that  like  a  jewelled  zone  swept  between  the  mighty 
forests  on  its  banks.  And  yet  all  was  still.  The  cold  seemed  to 
have  frozen  tree,  and  air,  and  water,  and  every  living  thing  that 
moved.  Even  the  ringing  of  my  skates  on  the  ice  echoed  back 
from  the  Moccason  Hill  with  a  startling  clearness,  and  the  crackle 
of  the  ice  as  I  passed  over  it  in  my  course  seemed  to  follow  the 
tide  of  the  river  with  lightning  speed. 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  143 

I  had  gone  up  the  river  nearly  two  miles  when,  coming  to  a 
little  stream  which  empties  into  the  larger,  I  turned  in  to  explore 
its  course.  Fir  and  hemlock  of  a  century's  growth  met  over 
head,  and  formed  an  archway  radiant  with  frost-work.  All  was 
dark  within,  but  I  was  young  and  fearless,  and  as  I  peered  into 
an  unbroken  forest  that  reared  itself  on  the  borders  of  the  stream, 
I  laughed  with -very  joyousness:  my  wild  hurrah  rang  through 
the  silent  woods,  and  I  stood  listening  to  the  echo  that  reverbe 
rated  again  and  again,  until  all  was  hushed.  I  thought  how 
often  the  Indian  hunter  had  concealed  himself  behind  these 
very  trees — how  often  his  arrow  had  pierced  the  deer  by  this 
very  stream,  and  his  wild  halloo  had  here  rung  for  his  vic 
tory.  And  then,  turning  from  fancy  to  reality,  I  watched  a 
couple  of  white  owls,  that  sat  in  their  hooded  state,  with  ruffled 
pantalettes  and  long  ear-tabs,  debating  in  silent  conclave  the 
affairs  of  their  frozen  realm,  and  was  wondering  if  they,  "  for  all 
their  feathers,  were  a-cold,"  when  suddenly  a  sound  arose — it 
seemed  to  me  to  come  from  beneath  the  ice ;  it  sounded  low 
and  tremulous  at  first,  until  it  ended  in  one  wild  yell.  I  was 
appalled.  Never  before  had  such  a  noise  met  my  ears.  I  thought 
it  more  than  mortal — so  fierce,  and  amid  such  an  unbroken 
solitude,  it  seemed  as  if  a  fiend  had  blown  a  blast  from  an  in 
fernal  trumpet.  Presently  I  heard  the  twigs  on  shore  snap,  as 
if  from  the  tread  of  some  animal,  and  the  blood  rushed  back  to 
my  forehead  with  a  bound  that  made  my  skin  burn,  and  I  felt 
relieved  that  I  had  to  contend  with  things  earthly,  and  not  of 
spiritual  nature — my  energies  returned,  and  I  looked  around 
me  for  some  means  of  escape.  The  moon  shone  through  the 
opening  at  the  mouth  of  the  creek  by  which  I  had  entered  the 
forest,  and  considering  this  the  best  means  of  escape,  I  darted 


144  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

towards  it  like  an  arrow.  'Twos  hardly  a  hundred  yards  distant, 
and  the  swallow  could  scarcely  excel  my  desperate  flight ;  yet,  as 
I  turned  my  head  to  the  shore,  I  could  see  two  dark  objects 
dashing  through  the  underbrush  at  a  pace  nearly  double  in 
speed  to  my  own.  By  this  great  speed,  and  the  short  yells 
which  they  occasionally  gave,  I  knew  at  once  that  these  were 
the  much  dreaded  gray  wolf. 

I  had  never  met  with  these  animals,  but  from  the  descrip 
tion  given  of  them  I  had  but  little  pleasure  in  making  their 
acquaintance.  Their  untameable  fierceness,  and  the  untiring 
strength  which  seems  part  of  their  nature,  render  them  objects 
of  dread  to  every  benighted  traveller. 

"  With  their  long  gallop,  which  can  tire 
The  deer-hound's  hate,  the  hunter's  fire," 

they  pursue  their  prey — never  straying  from  the  track  of  their 
victim — and  as  the  wearied  hunter  thinks  he  has  at  last  out 
stripped  them,  he  finds  that  they  but  waited  for  the  evening  to 
seize  their  prey,  and  falls  a  prize  to  the  tireless  animals. 

The  bushes  that  skirted  the  shore  flew  past  with  the  velocity 
of  lightning  as  I  dashed  on  in  my  flight  to  pass  the  narrow  open 
ing.  The  outlet  was  nearly  gained;  one  second  more  and  I 
would  be  comparatively  safe,  when  my  pursuers  appeared  on  the 
bank  directly  above  me,  which  here  rose  to  the  height  of  ten 
feet.  There  was  no  time  for  thought,  so  I  bent  my  head  and 
dashed  madly  forward.  The  wolves  sprang,  but  miscalculating 
my  speed,  sprang  behind,  while  their  intended  prey  glided  out 
upon  the  river. 

Nature  turned  me  towards  home.  The  light  flakes  of  snow 
spun  from  the  iron  of  my  skates,  and  I  was  some  distance  from 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  145 

my  pursuers,  when  their  fierce  howl  told  me  I  was  still  their 
fugitive.  I  did  not  look  back,  I  did  not  feel  afraid,  or  sorry,  or 
glad;  one  thought  of  home,  of  the  bright  faces  awaiting  my 
return,  of  their  tears  if  they  never  should  see  me,  and  then  every 
energy  of  body  and  mind  was  exerted  for  escape.  I  was  per 
fectly  at  home  on  the  ice.  Many  were  the  days  that  I  spent  on 
my  good  skates,  never  thinking  that  at  one  time  they  would  be 
my  only  means  of  safety.  Every  half  minute  an  alternate  yelp 
from  my  fierce  attendants  made  me  but  too  certain  that  they 
were  in  close  pursuit.  Nearer  and  nearer  they  came ;  I  heard 
their  feet  pattering  on  the  ice  nearer  still,  until  I  could  feel  their 
breath  and  hear  their  snuffing  scent.  Every  nerve  and  muscle 
in  my  frame  was  stretched  to  the  utmost  tension. 

The  trees  along  the  shore  seemed  to  dance  in  the  uncertain 
light,  and  my  brain  turned  with  my  own  breathless  speed,  yet 
still  they  seemed  to  hiss  forth  their  breath  with  a  sound  truly 
horrible,  when  an  involuntary  motion  on  my  part  turned  me  out 
of  my  course.  The  wolves  close  behind,  unable  to  stop,  and  as 
unable  to  turn  on  the  smooth  ice,  slipped  and  fell,  still  going 
on  far  ahead ;  their  tongues  were  lolling  out,  their  white  tusks 
glaring  from  their  bloody  mouths,  their  dark,  shaggy  breasts  were 
fleeced  with  foam,  and  as  they  passed  me  their  eyes  glared,  and 
they  howled  with  fury.  The  thought  flashed  on  my  mind,  that 
by  this  means  I  could  avoid  them,  viz.,  by  turning  aside  when 
ever  they  came  too  near ;  for  they,  by  the  formation  of  their  feet, 
are  unable  to  run  on  ice  except  on  a  straight  line. 

I  immediately  acted  upon  this  plan.     The  wolves,  having 

regained  their  feet,  sprang  directly  towards  me.     The  race  was 

renewed  for  twenty  yards  up  the  stream  ;  they  were  already  close 

on  my  back,  when  I  glided  round  and  dashed  directly  past  my 

10 


146  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

pursuers.  A  fierce  yell  greeted  my  evolution,  and  the  wolves, 
slipping  upon  their  haunches,  sailed  onward,  presenting  a  perfect 
picture  of  helplessness  and  baffled  rage.  Thus  I  gained  nearly  a 
hundred  yards  at  each  turning.  This  was  repeated  two  or  three 
times,  every  moment  the  animals  getting  more  excited  and  baffled. 

At  one  time,  by  delaying  my  turning  too  long,  my  fierce 
antagonists  came  so  near,  that  they  threw  the  white  foam  over 
my  dress  as  they  sprang  to  seize  me,  and  their  teeth  clashed  to 
gether  like  the  spring  of  a  fox-trap.  Had  my  skates  failed  for 
one  instant,  had  I  tripped  on  a  stick,  or  caught  my  foot  in  a 
fissure  in  the  ice,  the  story  I  am  now  telling  would  never  have 
been  told.  I  thought  all  the  chances  over;  I  knew  where  they 
would  first  take  hold  of  me  if  I  fell ;  I  thought  how  long  it  would 
be  before  I  died,  and  when  there  would  be  a  search  for  the  body 
that  would  already  have  its  tomb ; — for  oh !  how  fast  man's  mind 
traces  out  all  the  dead  colors  of  death's  picture,  only  those  who 
have  been  near  the  grim  original  can  tell. 

But  soon  I  came  opposite  the  house,  and  my  hounds — I  knew 
their  deep  voices — roused  by  the  noise,  bayed  furiously  from  the 
kennels.  I  heard  their  chains  rattle ;  how  I  wished  they  would 
break  them,  and  then  I  would  have  protectors  that  would  be 
peers  to  the  fiercest  denizens  of  the  forest.  The  wolves,  taking 
the  hint  conveyed  by  the  dogs,  stopped  in  their  mad  career,  and 
after  a  moment's  consideration,  turned  and  fled.  I  watched  them 
until  their  dusky  forms  disappeared  over  a  neighboring  hill. 
Then,  taking  off  my  skates,  wended  my  way  to  the  house,  with 
feelings  which  may  be  better  imagined  than  described. 

But  even  yet,  I  never  see  a  broad  sheet  of  ice  in  the  moon 
shine,  without  thinking  of  that  snuffling  breath  and  those  fearful 
things  that  followed  me  so  closely  down  the  frozen  Kennebec. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

""WHAT  a  noble  forest!"  cried  Annie,  as  she  looked  at  the  en 
graving  which  the  reader  will  see  on  the  opposite  page,  "those  old 
oaks,  with  their  gnarled  and  crooked  branches,  look  as  if  they 
might  have  formed  part  of  the  Druidical  groves  whose  solemn 
mysteries  inspired  even  the  arrogant  Eoman  with  awe.  This 
picture,  however,  belongs  to  a  later  period — that  of  the  Crusades, 
perhaps,  for  here  is  a  procession  in  which  appear  figures  in  the 
long  robe  of  the  monk,  and  I  think  I  can  discern  a  cross  on  that 
banner  borne  at  their  head.  But  what,  dear  Aunt  Nancy,  could 
you  possibly  find  in  our  land  of  yesterday,  to  associate  with  such 
a  scene?" 

"  Our  people  may  be  of  yesterday,  Annie,  but  our  land  bears 
no  marks  of  recent  origin.  The  most  arrogant  boaster  of  the  Old 
World  may  feel  himself  humbled  as  he  stands  within  the  shadow 
of  our  forests,  and  looks  up  to  trees  which  we  might  almost  fancy 
to  have  waved  over  the  heads  of  'the  patriarchs  of  an  infant 
world.'" 

"  And  you  have  seen  some  such  forests,  and  on  the  branches 
of  these  old  trees  '  hangs  a  tale'  which  you  will  tell  us.  Is  it  not 
so,  Aunt  Nancy  ?" 

"I  have  seen  such  a  forest,  and  I  have  a  sketch  of  certain 
events  occurring  within  its  circle.  The  narrative  was  given  me 
by  my  friend,  Mrs.  H.,  who  was  acquainted  with  the  parties. 


148  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

You  will  find  it  in  her  handwriting  in  the  compartment  of  my 
desk  from  which  you  took  the  engraving." 

Annie  found  the  paper,  and  I  saw  a  quiet  smile  pass  around 
as  she  read  aloud  its  title.  Mr.  Arlington,  at  my  request,  took 
the  reader's  place,  and  we  spent  our  evening  in  listening  to 


3Mnrt[  nf  an  (Dlfo  J&A 

IT  is  an  almost  universal  belief  among  those  who  have  faith  in 
man's  immortality,  that  when  his  spiritual  nature  has  been 
divested  of  its  present  veil — the  bodily  organization  by  which  it 
at  pleasure  reveals  or  conceals  itself — it  shall  be  manifested  to  all 
at  a  glance  in  the  unsullied  beauty  of  holiness,  or  the  dark  deform 
ity  of  vice.  Shall  our  vision  extend  farther  ?  Shall  we  read  the 
soul's  past  history  ?  Shall  we  know  the  struggles  which  have  given 
strength  to  its  powers  ?  the  fears  which  have  shadowed,  and  the 
hopes  which  have  lighted,  its  earthly  path  ?  Shall  we  learn  the  un 
spoken  sacrifices  which  have  been  laid  on  the  altar  of  its  affections 
or  its  duty  ?  Shall  we  see  how  a  single  generous  impulse  has 
shaped  the  whole  course  of  its  being,  and  been  as  a  heavenly 
flame  to  which  every  selfish  desire  and  feeling  has  been  commit 
ted  in  noiseless  devotion  ?  If  this  be  so,  how  many  such  records 
shall  be  furnished  by  the  life  of  Woman  ?  How  often  shall  it  be 
found,  that  from  such  a  flame  has  arisen  the  light  with  which  she 
has  brightened  the  existence  of  others ! 

Meeta  Werner  was  the  daughter  of  industrious,  honest  Ger 
mans,  who  had  emigrated  to  the  western  part  of  Pennsylvania 
when  she  was  but  a  child  of  seven  years  old.  Only  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  from  the  spot  on  which  Carl  Werner  had  fixed  his  resi- 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  149 

dence  lived  a  brother  German,  Franz  Rainer.  Franz  was  a 
widower,  with,  one  child,  a  son,  named  Ernest.  He  was  a  hard, 
stern  man,  and  the  first  smiles  which  had  lighted  the  existence 
of  the  young  Ernest  were  caught  from  the  sprightly  Meeta  and 
her  kind-hearted  mother.  The  children  became  play -fellows  and 
friends.  It  was  a  wild  country  in  which  they  lived.  A  very 
short  walk  from  their  own  doors  brought  them  into  a  forest  which 
seemed  to  their  young  imaginations  endless ;  where  gigantic  trees 
interlaced  their  branches,  and  with  their  green  foliage  shut  out 
the  sun  in  summer,  or  in  winter  reflected  it  in  dazzling  bright 
ness,  and  a  thousand  gorgeous  colors  from  the  icicles  which  cased 
their  leafless  branches  and  pendent  twigs.  There  was  not  a  foot 
path,  a  sunny  hill  or  flowery  dell,  for  miles  around  their  homes, 
which  had  not  been  trodden  together  by  Meeta  Werner  and  Er 
nest  Rainer  before  their  acquaintance  was  a  year  old.  Now  they 
would  come  home  laden  with  wood-flowers,  and  now  they  might 
be  seen  treading  wearily  back  from  some  distant  spot,  with  bas 
kets  filled  with  black-berries  or  with  the  dark-blue  whortle-berries. 
There  were  no  schools  in  the  neighborhood,  but  they  had  been 
taught  by  their  fathers  to  read  and  write  their  own  language,  and 
Ernest  afterward  acquired  some  knowledge  of  English  from  the 
good  pastor  who  had  accompanied  the  emigrants  from  Germany, 
and  who  acted  as  their  interpreter  when  they  needed  one.  Having 
access  to  few  books,  they  seemed  likely  to  grow  up  with  little 
more  learning  than  might  be  gathered  from  their  own  observation 
of  the  world  around  them ;  but  when  Ernest  was  eighteen  and 
Meeta  fifteen  years  of  age,  circumstances  occurred  which  gave  an 
entirely  new  coloring  to  their  lives. 

Franz  Rainer  had  not  always  been  so  stern  and  hard  as  he 
now   seemed.      He  had  married  imprudently,   in   the   world's 


150  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

acceptation  of  that  term ;  that  is,  he  had  made  a  portionless  but 
lovely  girl  his  wife,  and  in  doing  so  had  incurred  his  father's 
lasting  displeasure.  He  had  been  banished  from  a  home  of  plenty 
with  a  small  sum,  "  to  keep  him  from  starving,"  he  was  told. 
With  that  sum  and  a  young  delicate  wife  he  sailed  for  America, 
and  found  a  home  for  himself  and  his  boy,  and  a  grave  for  his 
wife,  in  the  forests  of  Pennsylvania.  Too  proud  to  seek  a  recon 
ciliation  with  those  who  had  cast  him  off,  he  had  held  no  com 
munication  with  his  own  family  after  leaving  Germany ;  and  it 
was  not  till  Ernest  was,  as  we  have  said,  eighteen,  that  the  silence 
of  his  home  was  broken  by  what  seemed  a  voice  from  the  past. 
After  many  hindrances  and  delays,  and  passing  through  many 
hands  for  which  it  had  not  been  intended,  a  letter  reached  him 
from  a  merchant  in  Philadelphia,  who  had  been  requested  to 
institute  a  search  for  Franz  by  his  only  brother.  The  old  Eainer 
was  dead,  and  the  family  estate  had  descended  to  this  brother,  a 
scholar  and  a  man  of  solitary  habits.  Finding  himself  growing 
old  in  a  lonely  home,  and  retaining  some  kindly  memory  of  the 
brother  in  whose  companionship  his  childhood  had  been  passed, 
he  wished  him  to  return  to  Germany,  and  again  dwell  with  him 
in  the  house  of  their  fathers.  To  this  Franz  would  by  no  means 
consent.  His  nature  was  cast  in  too  stern  a  mould  to  re-knit  at 
a  word  the  ties  which  had  been  so  violently  sundered.  He  con 
sented,  however,  after  some  correspondence  with  his  brother,  to 
send  Ernest  to  Germany,  to  be  educated  there ;  at  least,  to  receive 
such  an  education  as  could  be  gained  in  four  years;  for  he 
insisted  that  at  the  end  of  that  time  he  should  return  to  America, 
and  remain  there  while  his  father  lived.  "  After  my  death,  if  he 
choose  to  return  to  the  home  from  which  his  father  was  banished, 
he  may,"  wrote  the  still  resentful  Franz. 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  151 

And  how  was  this  change  in  all  the  prospects  of  his  life  re 
ceived  by  the  young  Ernest  and  his  companion  Meeta  ?  By  him 
with  mingled  feelings:  regret,  joy,  fear,  hope,  by  turns  ruled  his 
soul.  The  regret  was  all  for  Meeta  and  her  mother  ;  they  were 
the  sources  of  all  his  pleasant  memories ;  and  as  he  gazed  upon 
Meeta's  hitherto  bright  face,  now  clouded  with  sorrow,  and  kissed 
from  her  cheek  the  first  tears  he  had  ever  known  her  to  shed  for 
herself,  he  was  ready  to  give  up  all  his  fair  prospects  abroad  and 
live  with  her  for  ever.  Meeta  herself,  however,  gave  a  new  direc 
tion  to  his  thoughts,  by  generously  turning  from  the  subject  of 
her  grief  in  parting,  to  dwell  on  the  idea  of  the  delight  with 
which  they  would  meet  again,  and  especially  on  her  peculiar 
pleasure  in  seeing  Ernest  come  back  "  riding  in  a  grand  coach, 
with  servants  following  him  on  horseback,  as  she  remembered 
to  have  seen  in  Germany,  and  knowing  enough  to  teach  Parson 
Schmidt  himself!"  After  listening  to  such  prophecies,  Ernest 
no  longer  expressed  any  desire  to  remain  with  Meeta ;  he  con 
tented  himself,  instead,  with  promising  to  return  as  soon  as  he 
could,  and  with  winning  from  her  a  promise  that,  come  when  he 
would,  she  would  be  his  wife.  This  was  not  a  new  thought  or  a 
new  word  to  either.  They  could  scarcely  tell  themselves  when 
the  idea  had  first  arisen  in  their  minds  that  they  would  one  day 
live  together,  and  be  what  Carl  Werner  and  his  wife  were  to  each 
other.  They  had  even  chosen  a  site  for  their  house ;  and  Ernest 
had  more  than  once  of  late  expressed  the  opinion  that  they  were 
old  enough  to  inform  their  parents  of  their  intentions ;  but  the 
more  timid  Meeta  objected.  Now,  however,  she  could  refuse 
Ernest  nothing,  and  before  the  day  of  parting  came  they  had 
made  a  confidante  of  Meeta's  mother,  and  from  her  the  two  fathers 
had  learned  the  desires  of  their  children.  Carl  Werner  heard  the 


152  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

story  with,  a  smile ;  but  a  denser  shadow  gathered  on  the  dark 
brow  of  Franz.  For  a  moment  something  of  his  father's  pride 
was  in  his  heart ;  but  his  own  blighted  life  rose  before  him,  and 
he  said,  "  The  boy  may  do  as  he  pleases.  No  man  has  a  right  to 
control  another  on  such  a  subject." 

The  sun  had  not  yet  risen,  though  its  rays  were  gilding  the 
few  light  clouds  that  necked  the  eastern  sky,  when  Meeta  and 
Ernest  stood  together  beneath  an  old  oak  which  had  long  been 
their  favorite  "  try  sting- tree,"  to  say  those  last  words  and  give 
and  receive  those  last  looks  which  are  among  life's  most  sacred 
treasures.  Smiles  and  blushes  mingled  with  tears  on  Meeta's 
cheek  as  Ernest  pressed  her  to  his  bosom,  kissed  her  again  and 
again,  and  promised  that  his  first  letter  from  Germany  should  be 
addressed  to  her,  and  that  in  exactly  four  years  from  that  date  he 
would  be  again  beneath  that  tree,  to  claim  her  promise  to  be  his 
for  ever.  The  voice  of  Carl  Werner,  who  was  to  accompany 
Ernest  the  first  stage  of  his  journey,  startled  them  in  the  midst 
of  their  adieus ;  and  bursting  from  the  arms  of  her  companion, 
Meeta  plunged  deeper  into  the  woods  to  escape  her  father's  eye. 
When  Carl  returned  in  the  evening  he  handed  her  a  small  parcel, 
saying,  "  There's  some  foolery  that  Ernest  bought  for  you,  Meeta, 
Silly  boy !  I  hope  they'll  teach  him  in  Germany  to  take  better 
care  of  his  money  I" 

The  parcel  contained  a  very  plain  locket,  with  one  of  Ernest's 
dark  curls  inclosed  in  it.  Plain  as  it  was,  it  seemed  to  Meeta,  as 
it  probably  had  seemed  to  Ernest,  a  magnificent  present;  yet  she 
valued  more  the  few  simple  words  written  on  the  paper  which  en 
veloped  it :  "  For  Meeta,  my  promised  wife."  Four  months 
passed  away  before  Meeta  heard  again  of  her  lover.  Then  there 
came  a  letter  to  her,  which  was  full  of  the  great  cities  through 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  153 

which  Ernest  had  passed,  the  home  to  which  he  had  come,  and 
the  new  life  which  was  opening  to  him  there.  In  his  descriptions 
his  uncle  seemed  a  very  grand  gentleman,  and  his  uncle's  house 
keeper  almost  as  grand  a  lady.  He  told  of  the  new  wardrobe 
which  had  been  provided  for  him,  the  acquaintances  to  whom  he 
had  been  introduced,  and  the  studies  he  had  commenced.  And 
in  all  this  Meeta  saw  but  the  first  steps  toward  that  grandeur 
which  she  had  predicted  for  him,  and  she  rejoiced. 

Four  or  five  such  letters  were  received  by  Meeta,  each  full  of 
her  lover  himself;  but  they  came  at  lengthening  intervals,  and 
during  the  third  year  she  received  from  him  only  messages  sent 
through  his  father,  though  every  message  still  conveyed  a  prom 
ise  to  write  soon.  The  letters  of  Ernest  showed  that  he  had 
made  great  advances  in  scholarship  during  his  residence  in  Ger 
many,  and  to  all  but  Meeta  herself,  and  perhaps  her  mother,  they 
gave  equal  evidence  that  his  heart  was  not  with  the  home  or  the 
friends  he  had  left  in  America.  But  no  shadow  ever  passed  over 
the  transparent  faith  of  Meeta.  Ernest  was  to  her  still  the  frank,  ar 
dent,  simple-hearted  boy  whom  she  had  loved  so  long  and  so  truly. 
She  was  still  his  promised  wife.  Her  quick  sensibility  to  all 
which  touched  him  made  her  feel  that  there  was  a  change  in  the 
tone  with  which  her  father  named  him,  and  an  expression,  half  of 
anger,  half  of  pity,  on  his  face  when  she  alluded  to  him.  It  was 
an  expression  which  gave  her  pain,  though  she  did  not  under 
stand  its  meaning ;  and  she  ceased  to  speak  of  Ernest,  lest  she 
should  call  it  up ;  but  his  locket  lay  next  her  heart,  his  letters 
were  well  nigh  worn  away  with  frequent  reading,  and  no  day 
passed  in  which  she  did  not  visit  the  oak  beneath  which  they 
had  parted,  and  beneath  which  she  fondly  believed  they  were  to 
meet  a^ain. 


154  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

During  the  fourth  year  of  Ernest's  absence  his  letters  to  his 
father  became  more  frequent,  and  sometimes  inclosed  a  few  lines 
to  Meeta.  To  both  he  expresssd  a  strong  desire  to  stay  one  more 
year  abroad,  alleging  that  to  interrupt  his  studies  now  would  be  to 
render  all  his  past  labors  unavailing.  There  was  scarce  a  strug 
gle  in  Meeta's  mind  in  yielding  her  own  almost  matured  hopes 
to  what  seemed  so  reasonable  a  wish  of  Ernest ;  but  the  elder 
Rainer  was  not  so  easily  won  to  compliance.  Urgent  represen 
tations  from  his  brother  as  well  as  Ernest,  did  at  length,  how 
ever,  induce  him  to  consent  to  the  absence  of  his  son  for  another 
year. 

This  was  an  important  year  to  Meeta.  It  brought  her  an  ac 
quaintance  through  whom  her  dormant  intellect  was  aroused, 
and  her  manners  fitted  for  something  more  than  the  rude  life  by 
which  she  had  been  hitherto  surrounded.  This  was  Mrs. 
Schwartz,  the  wife  of  a  young  pastor,  who  had  come  to  assist 
Mr.  Schmidt  in  those  duties  to  which  his  advancing  years  ren 
dered  him  unequal.  Mrs.  Schwartz  was  a  woman  of  no  ordinary 
stamp.  Highly  educated,  with  an  intense  enjoyment  of  every 
form  of  beauty  and  grace,  she  saw  something  of  them  embellish 
ing  the  homeliest  employments  and  most  common  life  with  which 
a  sentiment  of  duty  was  connected.  Severe  illness  had  confined 
her  to  her  bed  for  many  weeks  soon  after  her  arrival,  and  before 
she  had  been  able  to  establish  that  perfect  domestic  economy, 
which  renders  the  daily  and  hourly  inspection  and  interference 
of  the  mistress  of  a  mansion  needless  to  the  comfort  of  its  in 
mates.  During  this  period,  Meeta,  whose  sympathies  had  been 
deeply  interested  in  the  stranger,  nursed  her,  and  planned  for 
her,  and  worked  for  her,  until  she  made  herself  a  place  in  her 
heart  amonar  her  life-friends.  As  Mrs.  Schwartz  saw  her  mo  vino; 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  155 

around  her  with  sucli  busy  kindness,  the  thought  often  arose  in 
her  mind,  "What  can  I  do  for  her?"  This  is  a  question  we 
seldom  ask  ourselves  of  any  one  sincerely,  without  finding  an 
answer  to  it. 

We  have  said  that  Meeta  had  access  to  few  books  in  early 
life;  we  might  have  added  that  she  had  little  opportunity  of 
hearing  the  conversation  of  persons  more  cultivated  than  herself. 
Thus  were  the  two  great  sources  of  intellectual  development 
sealed  to  her.  She  had  a  thoughtful,  earnest  mind.  She  loved 
the  beautiful  world  around  her,  and  the  GREAT  BEING  who  made 
and  sustained  that  world.  But  if  the  contemplation  of  these 
things  awakened  thoughts  of  a  higher  character  than  the  daily 
baking  and  brewing,  milking  and  scrubbing  in  her  father's  house, 
she  had  no  language  in  which  to  clothe  them,  and  vague  and 
undefined,  they  fleeted  away  like  the  morning  mists,  leaving  no 
impress  of  their  presence.  Her  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Schwartz, 
and  the  conversations  she  sometimes  heard  between  her  and  her 
husband,  gave  to  these  shadows  substance  and  form,  and  awakened 
a  new  want  in  Meeta's  soul — the  want  of  knowledge.  As  in  all 
else,  Ernest  was  present  in  this.  He  would  doubtless  be  intelli 
gent,  wise,  like  Mr.  Schwartz,  and  how  could  she  be  his  compan 
ion  ?  Something  of  these  new  experiences  in  Meeta  was  divined 
by  Mrs.  Schwartz,  and  with  a  true  womanly  tact  she  became  her 
teacher  without  wounding  her  self-love.  The  road  to  knowledge 
once  opened  to  Meeta,  her  advance  on  it  was  rapid.  How  could 
it  be  otherwise,  when  every  step  was  bringing  her  nearer  to  Er 
nest  !  The  elevation  and  refinement  of  mind  which  Meeta  thus 
acquired  impressed  themselves  on  her  agreeable  features.  Her 
dark  eyes  became  bright  with  the  soul's  light,  and  her  whole 
aspect  so  attractive,  that  her  old  friends  exclaimed,  as  they 


156  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

looked  upon  her,  "How  handsome  Meeta  Werner  grows,  she 
who  used  to  be  so  plain !" 

After  a  time  these  superficial  observers  thought  they  had 
found  the  cause  of  this  change  in  Meeta's  change  of  costume,  for 
a  new  sense  of  beauty  had  been  awakened  in  her,  under  whose 
guidance  her  dark  hair  was  brought  in  soft  silken  braids  upon 
her  cheeks,  wound  gracefully  around  her  well-shaped  head,  and 
sometimes  ornamented  with  a  ribbon  or  a  cluster  of  wild  flowers, 
while  her  dresses  were  remodelled  so  as  to  resemble  less  the  fash 
ion  which  her  mother  and  her  sister  emigrants  had  imported 
thirteen  years  before  from  Germany,  and  to  give  a  more  natural 
air  to  her  really  fine  figure. 

"  How  wonderfully  Meeta  has  improved,"  said  Mr.  Schwartz, 
one  evening  to  his  wife,  as  he  looked  after  the  retreating  form  of 
her  friend. 

"Yes,  and  I  am  truly  rejoiced  that  she  has  so  improved  be 
fore  her  lover  returns  to  claim  her." 

"  I  wish  he  could  have  taken  away  with  him  such  an  impres 
sion  as  our  handsome  and  intelligent  Meeta  would  now  make. 
He  would  have  been  much  more  likely  to  remain  constant  to 
her.  There  must  be  a  painful  contrast  between  the  cultivated 
and  graceful  women  he  has  known  in  Germany,  and  his  memory 
of  his  early  love." 

"Love  is  a  great  embellisher,"  said  Mrs.  Schwartz,  with  a 
gay  smile,  and  the  conversation  passed  to  more  general  topics. 

The  fifth  year  of  Ernest's  absence  was  gone,  and  still  he  came 
not ;  but  he  was  coming  soon,  at  least  so  his  father  said,  though 
he  did  not  show  Meeta  the  letters  on  which  he  founded  his  asser 
tion.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  withheld  them ;  a  circum 
stance  the  more  remarkable,  because  of  late  he  seemed  to  regard 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  157 

Meeta  with  greater  affection  and  confidence  than  he  had  ever 
done  before.  He  now  sought  her  society,  and  seemed  pleased 
and  even  proud  of  the  connection  to  which  he  had  at  first  con 
sented  with  some  reluctance.  It  was  very  soon  after  the  recep 
tion  of  the  letter  from  Ernest  to  which  we  have  alluded,  that 
Franz  Earner's  health  began  to  fail,  and  that  so  rapidly,  that 
Meeta  feared  Ernest  could  not  arrive  in  time  to  see  him.  She 
was  to  the  old  man  an  angel  of  consolation,  and  he  clung  to  her 
as  to  his  last  hope.  In  pity  to  his  lonely  condition,  her  own 
parents  were  willing  to  spare  her  for  a  time,  and  Meeta,  that  she 
might  take  care  of  him  by  night  as  well  as  by  day,  had  removed 
to  his  house  a  week  before  Ernest's  arrival.  He  came  not  wholly 
unwarned  of  the  sorrow  that  awaited  him,  for  he  had  found  a 
letter  from  Meeta  at  the  house  of  the  merchant  in  Philadelphia 
through  whom  he  had  corresponded  with  his  father,  tenderly  yet 
plainly  revealing  her  fears,  and  urging  him  to  hurry  homeward 
without  delay.  He  travelled  with  little  rest  or  refreshment  for 
two  days  and  nights,  and  arrived  late  on  the  third  day  at  his 
father's  house.  It  was  a  still  summer  evening,  and  while  the  old 
man  slept,  Meeta  sat  near  him  in  the  only  parlor  the  house 
afforded,  reading  by  a  shaded  night  lamp.  She  heard  the  sound 
of  carriage  wheels,  and  paused  to  listen ;  the  sound  ceased ;  a 
shadow  darkened  the  moonlight  which  had  been  streaming 
through  an  open  window,  and  then  Ernest,  the  play-fellow  of  her 
childhood,  the  lover  of  her  youth,  stood  before  her;  but  how 
changed ;  how  gloriously  changed,  thought  Meeta,  even  in  that 
hour  of  hurry  and  agitation.  They  gazed  on  each  other  in 
silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  Meeta  with  a  bright  smile,  yet  in 
a  whisper,  for  even  then  she  forgot  not  the  dying  man,  asked : 
"Do  you  not  know  me,  Ernest?" 


158  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

"Meeta!"  lie  ejaculated,  as  lie  took  tlie  hand  she  extended 
to  him,  but  dropping  it  almost  immediately,  he  said  anxiously : 
"My  father!  he  lives,  Meeta?" 

"  He  does,  Ernest,  and  may  live,  I  think  will  live,  for  many 
days  yet." 

" Thank  GOD!  then  I  shall  see  him  again !" 

The  conversation  had  till  now  been  in  whispers,  but  Ernest 
uttered  his  ejaculation  of  thankfulness  aloud.  There  was  a 
movement  in  the  old  man's  room,  a  sound,  and  Meeta  glided  to 
his  side. 

"Who  were  you  talking  with,  my  daughter?"  he  murmur 
ed  feebly.  For  many  days  Franz  Eainer  had  called  Meeta 
daughter,  as  if  he  found  pleasure  in  recalling  the  tie  between 
them. 

"  With  one  who  tells  me  Ernest  has  arrived,  and  will  see  you 
soon,"  said  Meeta. 

"It  is  Ernest  himself.  I  knew  his  voice ;  Ernest,  my  son  !" 
And  the  old  man's  tones  were  loud  and  strong,  as  Meeta  had  not 
heard  them  for  days.  In  another  moment,  Ernest  was  bending 
over  his  father,  and  they  were  gazing  on  each  other  with  a  ten 
derness  whose  very  existence  they  had  not  before  suspected. 
Tears  were  rolling  down  the  face  of  the  once  stern  old  man,  as 
he  pressed  his  son's  hand  again  and  again,  and  murmured  bless 
ings  on  him,  and  thanks  to  GOD  for  his  safe  return ;  and  Ernest, 
as  he  marked  the  death-shadow  on  his  father's  brow,  felt  that  a 
tie  was  tearing  away  which  had  been  woven  more  intimately 
than  he  had  supposed  with  his  heart's  fibres.  The  weeping 
Meeta  composed  herself  that  she  might  soothe  them. 

"  Ernest,  I  cannot  let  you  stay  longer  here ;  I  am  your 
father's  nurse." 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  159 

"My  nurse,  my  daughter,  my  all,  Ernest;  your  gift  to  me, 
my  son,  which,  thank  GOD  !  you  have  come  in  time  to  receive 
again  from  my  hands.  Take  her  to  you,  Ernest." 

The  old  man  held  Meeta's  hand  clasped  in  his  own  toward 
his  son,  and  Ernest  touched  it,  but  so  slightly  and  with  a  hand 
so  cold,  that  Meeta  looked  up  in  alarm.  There  was  a  beseeching 
expression  in  the  eyes  that  met  hers ;  a  look  which  she  did  not 
understand,  and  yet  on  which  she  acted. 

"Ernest,"  she  said,  "you  are  fatigued  to  death,  and  your 
father  has  been  too  much  agitated  already.  Go,  I  pray  you,  for 
the  present ;  I  cannot  leave  your  father,  but  you  will  find  coffee 
and  biscuits  by  the  kitchen  fire,  and  there  is  a  bed  prepared  in 
your  own  room.  Good-night ;  we  shall  meet  again  to-morrow," 
she  added  with  a  smile  to  the  old  man. 

Ernest  gave  her  a  more  cordial  glance  and  pressure  of  the 
hand  than  she  had  yet  received  from  him ;  told  his  father  that 
he  would  only  snatch  an  hour's  sleep  and  be  with  him  again,  and 
left  the  room. 

"  Go  with  him,  Meeta ;  you  must  have  much  to  say." 

"Nothing  that  we  cannot  say  as  well  to-morrow.  And  now 
you  must  take  another  sleeping  draught,  for  I  see  Ernest  has 
carried  off  all  the  effect  of  your  last." 

Meeta  spoke  cheerfully,  yet  her  heart  was  sad,  she  scarce 
knew  why.  She  would  not  think  Ernest  unkind,  yet  how  differ 
ent  had  been  their  meeting  from  that  which  fancy  had  so  often 
sketched  for  her ! 

Franz  Eainer  fell  asleep,  and  again  Meeta  returned  to  the 
parlor.  A  lamp  was  still  burning  there,  and  by  its  dim  light  she 
saw  the  form  of  Ernest  extended  on  a  settee  with  his  cloak  and 
valise  for  his  bed  and  pillow.  At  first  she  drew  timidly  back 


160  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

into  the  chamber,  but  as  the  slight  noise  she  had  made  before 
perceiving  him,  had  failed  to  disturb  him,  she  felt  assured  that 
he  slept  soundly,  and  an  irresistible  desire  arose  in  her  heart  to 
draw  near  him,  and  look  at  him  more  closely  than  she  had  yet 
ventured  to  do.  She  stood  beside  him ;  her  heart  bounded 
against  the  locket,  his  gift,  which  lay  in  its  accustomed  place,  as 
she  marked  with  a  quick  eye  how  the  handsome  but  uncouth 
stripling  had  expanded  into  the  man  of  noble  proportions,  whose 
features  had,  like  her  own,  acquired  a  new  character  under  the 
refining  touch  of  intellect.  Meeta  looked  on  him  till  her  eyes 
grew  dim  with  tears  pressed  from  a  heart  full  of  emotion,  com 
pounded  of  happy  memories  and  glad  hopes,  shadowed  by  disap 
pointment  and  saddened  by  doubt.  Above  all  other  feelings, 
however,  rose  the  undying  love  which  had  "grown  with  her 
growth,  and  strengthened  with  her  strength."  Suddenly,  by  an 
irrepressible  impulse,  she  laid  her  hand  softly  on  the  dark  locks 
of  waving  hair  which  clustered  over  his  broad  brow,  and  breathed 
in  low,  tender  accents,  "  My  Ernest!" 

On  leaving  his  father's  room,  Ernest  had  thrown  himself  on 
his  hard  couch  not  to  sleep,  but  to  rest ;  and  when  slumber  over 
powered  him,  he  had  yielded  to  it  unwillingly,  and  with  the 
determination  to  be  on  the  alert  and  ready  to  arise  on  the  first 
summons.  Sleep  that  comes  thus,  however  it  may  continue 
through  other  disturbing  causes,  rarely  resists  a  touch,  or  the 
sound  of  our  own  name,  and  light  as  was  Meeta's  touch  and  low 
as  were  her  tones,  Ernest  was  partially  aroused  by  them.  He 
stirred,  and  she  would  have  retreated  noiselessly  from  his  side, 
but  as  his  eyes  unclosed,  they  fell  upon  her  with  an  expression 
of  such  rapturous  love  as  she  had  never  seen  in  them  before,  and 
in  an  instant  he  had  encircled  her  form  with  his  arm,  and  drawn 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

her  to  his  bosom.  In  glad  surprise  she  rested  there  a  moment ; 
it  was  but  a  moment. 

"  Sophie — my  Sophie !"  were  the  murmured  words  that  met 
her  ear,  and  gave  her  strength  to  burst  from  his  embraces  and 
glide  rapidly,  noiselessly  back  into  the  darkened  chamber. 
There,  sheltered  by  the  darkness,  she  could  see  Ernest  raise 
himself  slowly  up  from  his  couch,  look  almost  wildly  around 
him,  and  then  seemingly  satisfied  that  he  had  only  dreamed, 
sink  back  again  to  rest. 

A  dream  it  had  indeed  been  to  him ;  a  shadow  of  the  night ; 
to  Meeta  a  dark  cloud,  in  whose  gloom  she  was  henceforth  to 
walk  for  ever.  Hours  of  conversation  could  not  so  fully  have 
revealed  the  truth  to  Meeta  as  those  simple  words:  "Sophie — 
my  Sophie !"  uttered  by  Ernest  in  such  a  tone  of  heart- worship. 
Ernest  loved  with  all  the  fond  idolatry  which  she  had  thought  of 
late  belonged  not  to  man's  affections;  but  he  loved  another. 
Jealousy ;  the  bitter  consciousness  of  her  own  slighted  love ;  the 
memory  of  his  vows ;  the  crushing  thought  that  she  was  nothing 
to  him  now ;  that  while  he  had  been  the  life  of  her  life,  another 
had  filled  his  thoughts  and  ruled  his  being,  created  a  wild  tem 
pest  in  her  soul.  All  was  still  around  her.  The  sick  man,  the 
tired  Ernest  slept ;  and  without,  not  even  the  rustling  of  a  leaf 
disturbed  the  repose  of  Nature.  She  seemed  to  herself  the  only 
living  thing  in  the  universe ;  and  to  her,  life  was  torture.  An 
hour  passed  in  this  still,  concentrated  agony,  and  she  could  en 
dure  it  no  longer ;  she  must  be  up  and  doing ;  she  would  wake 
Ernest;  she  would  tell  him  the  revelation  she  had  made;  upbraid 
him  with  her  blighted  life,  and  leave  him.  Let  him  send  for  his 
Sophie;  what  did  she,  the  outcast,  the  rejected,  there  in  his 
house  ? — why  should  she  nurse  his  father  ?  She  rose  and  ap- 
11 


162  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

proaclied  again  the  couch  of  Ernest ;  she  was  about  to  call  him, 
but  she  was  arrested  by  the  expression  of  agony  in  his  face.  His 
brow  was  contracted,  and  as  she  continued  to  gaze,  low  moans 
issued  from  his  quivering  lips.  Ernest  too  was  a  sufferer  ;  how 
that  thought  softened  the  hard,  cold,  icy  crust  that  had  been 
gathering  around  her  heart !  The  bitterness  of  pride  and  jealousy 
gave  place  to  tenderer  emotions.  Tears  gathered  in  her  eyes, 
and  stealing  softly  back  to  her  sheltered  seat,  she  wept  long  and 
silently. 

"In  sorrow  the  angels  are  near;"  and  Meeta's  heart  was  now 
full  of  sorrow,  not  of  anger.  Sad  must  her  life  ever  be,  but  what 
of  that,  if  Ernest  could  be  happy?  Perhaps  he  suffered  for  her; 
the  good,  true  Ernest.  It  might  be  that  only  in  dreams  he  had 
told  his  love  to  Sophie,  bound  to  silence,  painful  silence,  by  his 
vows  to  her.  She  then  could  make  him  happy,  and  was  not  that 
her  first  desire  ?  If  it  were  not,  her  love  was  a  low,  selfish,  un 
worthy  love,  and  she  would  pray  that  it  might  be  purified.  She 
did  pray,  not  as  she  would  have  done  an  hour  before,  to  be  taken 
out  of  the  world,  but  that  she  might  be  made  meet  to  do  the  will 
of  her  FATHEB  while  in  the  world.  She  prayed  for  herself,  for 
Ernest;  and  sweet  peace  stole  into  her  heart,  and  before  the 
morning  light  came,  she  had  resolved  not  to  leave  the  old  man 
who  loved  her,  during  his  few  remaining  days,  yet  not  to  keep 
Ernest  in  doubt  of  his  own  freedom.  She  was  impatient  that  he 
should  awake,  and  fell  asleep  imagining  various  modes  of  making 
her  communication  to  him.  Exhausted  by  mental  agitation  even 
more  than  by  watching,  she  slept  long  and  heavily.  When  she 
awoke,  Ernest  was  shading  the  window  at  her  side,  through 
which  the  sun  was  shining  brightly  into  the  room.  As  she 
moved,  he  looked  at  her  kindly,  and  said : 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  163 

"  I  am  afraid  I  awoke  you,  Meeta,  when  I  meant  only  to  pro 
long  your  sleep  by  shutting  out  this  light." 

"  I  have  slept  long  enough,"  was  all  that  Meeta  could  say. 
The  old  Earner  was  awake,  and  dreading  above  all  things  some 
allusion  from  him  to  the  supposed  relations  of  Ernest  and  herself, 
she  hastened  from  the  room  and  busied  herself  in  the  preparation 
of  breakfast.  Having  seen  that  meal  placed  upon  the  table,  she 
returned  to  the  sick  room  and  begged  that  Ernest  would  pour 
out  his  own  coffee,  while  she  did  some  things  that  were  essential 
to  his  father's  comfort.  She  lingered  till  Ernest  came  to  see  if 
he  could  not  take  her  place,  and  then,  as  the  old  man  slept  peace 
fully,  and  she  could  make  no  further  excuse,  she  accompanied 
him  back  to  the  table.  The  breakfast,  a  mere  form  to  Meeta  at 
least,  proceeded  in  silence,  or  with  only  a  casual  remark  from 
Ernest,  scarcely  heard  by  her,  on  the  weather,  the  rapidity  with 
which  he  had  travelled,  or  his  father's  condition.  Suddenly  Meeta 
seemed  to  rouse  herself  as  from  a  deep  reverie : 

"  Why  do  you  not  talk  to  me  of  Sophie  ?"  she  said,  attempt 
ing  to  speak  gayly,  though  one  less  embarrassed  than  Ernest 
could  not  have  failed  to  note  the  tremulousness  of  her  voice,  and 
the  quivering  of  the  pallid  lips  which  vainly  strove  to  smile. 

But  Meeta's  agitation  was  as  nothing  to  that  of  Ernest.  For 
a  moment  he  gazed  upon  her  as  if  spell-bound,  then  dropping  his 
face  into  his  clasped  hands,  sat  actually  shivering  before  her.  It 
was  plain  that  Ernest  had  not  lightly  estimated  his  obligations  to 
her.  If  he  had  sinned  against  them  he  had  not  despised  them, 
and  this  conviction  gave  new  strength  to  Meeta.  She  rose  for 
the  hour  superior  to  every  selfish  emotion.  Laying  her  hand 
upon  his  arm,  she  said,  gently : 

"  Be  not  so  agitated,  Ernest ;  can  you  not  regard  me  as  your 


164  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

friend,  and  talk  to  me  as  you  did  in  old  days  of  all  that  disturbs 
you ;  and  why  should  you  be  disturbed  at  my  speaking  of — of 
your  Sophie?  You  do  not  suppose  that — you  know  that — in 
short,  Ernest,  we  cannot  be  expected  to  feel  now  as  we  did  five 
years  ago ;  but  surely  that  need  not  prevent  our  being  friends." 

Meeta  had  been  herself  too  much  confused  of  late,  to  remark 
her  companion.  When  she  now  ventured  with  great  effort  to 
meet  his  eyes,  she  found  them  fixed  upon  her  with  an  expres 
sion  of  lively  admiration  and  grateful  joy. 

"Meeta,  dear  Meeta!"  he  exclaimed,  seizing  her  hand  and 
kissing  it.  "  You  give  me  new  life.  I  have  been  a  miserable 
man  for  weeks  past,  torn  by  conflicting  claims  upon  my  heart 
and  my  honor.  You  had  claims  on  both,  Meeta  ;  sacred  claims, 
which  I  could  never  have  asked  you  to  forego ;  and  so  had 
Sophie,  for  though  I  resisted  long,  there  came  a  moment  of  mad 
passion,  of  madder  forgetfulness,  in  which,  abandoning  myself  to 
the  present,  I  sought  and  obtained  an  avowal  of  her  love.  It 
was  scarcely  done  ere  I  felt  the  wrong  I  had  done.  I  revealed 
that  wrong  to  her ;  pity  me,  Meeta !  I  told  her  all — your  claims, 
your  worth.  To  you  I  resolved  to  be  equally  frank,  and  my 
only  hope  was  in  your  generosity.  But  my  father  had  never 
suffered  me  to  doubt  that  your  heart  was  still  mine,  and  though 
I  was  assured  that  you  would  enable  me  to  fulfil  my  obligations 
to  Sophie,  I  feared,  I  mean,  I  could  not  hope,  that  it  would  be 
without  any  sacrifice ;  I  mean  without  any  regrets  on  your  part." 

Ernest  paused  in  some  embarrassment ;  but  Meeta  could  not 
speak,  and  he  resumed: 

"You  have  made  me  perfectly  happy,  Meeta,  which  even 
Sophie  could  not  have  done,  had  I  been  compelled  in  devoting 
myself  to  her  to  relinquish  the  friend  and  sister  of  my  childhood." 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  165 

"Always  regard  me  thus,  Ernest,  as  your  friend  and  sister, 
and  I  shall  be  satisfied." 

Meeta  had  risen  to  return  to  the  sick  room,  but  Ernest  caught 
her  hand  and  held  her  back,  while  he  said : 

"  But  you  must  see  my  Sophie,  Meeta ;  you  must  know  her, 
and  then  you  will  love  her  too.  She  will  be  here  soon  with  her 
sister,  Mrs.  Schwartz." 

"  Mrs.  Schwartz  her  sister?  Then  my  last  doubt  is  removed, 
Ernest.  She  is  worthy  of  you." 

"Worthy  of  me!"  And  Ernest  would  have  run  into  all  a 
lover's  rhapsodies  on  this  text,  but  Meeta  had  escaped  from  him. 

Hitherto  Meeta 's  life  had  been  one  of  quietness,  of  inaction, 
and  now  in  a  few  short  weeks  ages  of  active  existence  seemed 
crowded.  One  object  she  had  set  before  her  as  the  great  aim  of 
her  life ;  it  was  to  secure  Ernest's  happiness  and  preserve  his 
honor.  She  understood  now  the  coldness  with  which  her  father 
had  of  late  named  him.  It  was  essential  to  her  peace  that  this 
coldness  should  not  deepen  into  anger.  Not  even  in  her  own 
family  then  must  she  have  rest  from  the  strife  between  her  inner 
and  her  outer  life.  Sympathy  she  must  not  have,  since  sympathy 
with  her  was  almost  inseparably  connected  with  reproach  of  Er 
nest.  Time  had  another  lesson  to  teach,  and  Meeta  soon  learned 
it ;  that  in  a  combat  such  as  she  had  to  sustain,  no  half-way 
measures  would  suffice,  that  she  must  not  drive  her  griefs  down 
to  the  depths  of  her  heart,  shutting  them  there  from  every  human 
eye,  but  she  must  drive  them  out  of  her  heart.  We  talk  of  feign 
ing  cheerfulness,  of  wearing  a  mask  for  the  world  and  throwing 
it  off  in  solitude,  and  we  may  do  this  for  a  week,  a  month,  a  year, 
but  those  who  have  a  life-grief  to  sustain,  from  whose  hearts  hope 
has  died  out,  know  that  there  are  but  two  paths  open  to  them  in 


166  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

the  universe ;  to  lie  down  in  their  despair  and  breathe  out  their 
souls  in  murmurs  against  their  GOD,  and  lamentations  over  their 
destiny ;  or,  humbly  kissing  the  rod  which  has  smitten  them,  to  go 
forth  out  of  themselves,  where  all  is  darkness  and  woe,  and  find 
a  new  and  happier  life  in  living  for  and  in  others.  And  thus  did 
Meeta. 

We  may  not  linger  over  the  details  of  the  next  few  weeks  of 
her  existence.  The  old  Eainer  died ;  died  blessing  his  children, 
Ernest  and  Meeta,  and  praying  for  their  happiness.  Often  would 
Ernest  have  told  him  all ;  but  Meeta  kept  back  a  disclosure  which 
would  have  given  him  pain.  "Do  not  disturb  him  now,  Ernest," 
she  said;  "he  will  know  all  soon,  and  bless  your  Sophie  from 
heaven,  where  there  is  no  sorrow." 

Meeta  returned  home,  and  exhaustion  won  for  her  a  few  days 
of  rest ;  rest  even  from  her  mental  struggles ;  but  when  the  fune 
ral  was  over,  and  things  returned  to  their  usual  routine,  she  felt 
that  she  must  prepare  her  father  and  mother  to  receive  Ernest  in 
the  character  in  which  they  were  henceforth  to  regard  him.  She 
found  strength  for  this  in  her  lofty  purpose  and  her  simple  de 
pendence  upon  Heaven,  and  her  voice  did  not  falter  nor  her  color 
change  as  she  said  to  her  mother : — 

"Do  you  not  think  Ernest  is  much  altered?" 

"  Yes,  he  is  greatly  improved." 

"  Improved !  Well,  he  may  be  so  to  the  eyes  of  others,  but — " 

"  Is  he  not  as  tender  to  you,  my  daughter  ?"  asked  the  sensi 
tive  mother. 

" That  is  not  it,"  said  Meeta,  coloring  for  the  first  time ;  "we 
neither  of  us  feel  as  we  once  did ;  it  was  a  childish  folly  to  sup 
pose  that  we  should.  I  have  told  Ernest  that  I  could  not  fulfil 
our  engagement,  and  he  is  satisfied." 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  167 

Madame  Werner  looked  long  at  her  daughter,  but  Meeta  met 
the  glance  firmly. 

"  And  is  this  all,  Meeta?" 

"All !  What  more  would  you  have,  dear  mother?" 

"  And  are  you  happy,  Meeta?" 

"  Happier  than  I  should  be  in  marrying  Ernest  now,  dear 
mother." 

Madame  Werner  explained  all  this  to  her  husband,  at  her 
daughter's  request.  He  was  not  grieved  at  it.  "Ernest,"  he 
said,  "had  never  valued  Meeta  as  she  deserved.  He  was  glad 
she  had  shown  so  much  spirit." 

Meeta  had  a  more  difficult  task  to  perform.  "  Mrs.  Schwartz's 
sister  has  come  at  last.  She  came  from  Germany  at  the  same 
time  with  Ernest,  but  stopped  to  make  a  visit  to  another  sister  in 
Philadelphia,  and  only  arrived  here  last  night.  I  will  go  and  see 
her,"  said  Meeta  one  morning  to  Madame  Werner.  She  went.  As 
she  approached  the  house,  there  came  through  the  open  windows 
the  sound  of  an  organ,  accompanied  by  a  rich  and  highly  culti 
vated  voice.  Meeta  would  not  pause  for  a  moment,  lest  she 
should  grow  nervous.  It  was  essential  to  Ernest's  happiness  that 
Sophie  should  be  friendly  with  her  ;  and  the  difficulties  were  of 
a  nature  which,  if  not  overcome  at  once,  would  not  be  overcome 
at  all.  Meeta  entered  the  small  parlor  without  knocking,  and  found 
herself  tete-a-tete  with  the  musician ;  a  young,  fair  girl,  delicately 
formed,  with  beautiful  hands  and  arms,  and  pleasing,  pretty  face. 
As  she  saw  the  visitor,  her  song  ceased.  Meeta  smiled  on  her, 
and  extending  her  hand,  said:  "You  are  Sophie — Ernest's 
Sophie?" 

"And  you,"  said  the  fair  girl,  with  wondering  eyes,  "are — " 

"  Meeta." 


168  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

This  was  an  introduction  which  admitted  no  formality,  and 
when  Mrs.  Schwartz  entered  half  an  hour  later,  she  was  sur 
prised  to  find  those  so  lately  strangers  conversing  in  the  low  and 
earnest  tones  which  betoken  confidence,  while  the  lofty  expres 
sion  on  the  countenance  of  the  one,  and  the  moist  eyes  and  flushed 
cheeks  of  the  other,  showed  that  their  topic  was  one  of  no  ordi 
nary  interest. 

Six  months  passed  rapidly  away,  and  then  Ernest  felt  that  he 
might,  without  disrespect  to  his  father's  memory,  bring  home  his 
bride.  Their  engagement  had  been  known  for  some  time,  and  had 
excited  no  little  surprise  ;  though  perhaps  less  than  the  continued 
and  close  friendship  between  them  and  Meeta.  Many  improve 
ments  in  Sophie's  future  home  had  been  suggested  by  Meeta 's 
taste,  and  Ernest  had  acquired  such  a  habit  of  consulting  her,  that 
no  day  passed  without  an  interview  between  them.  At  length 
the  evening  preceding  the  bridal-day  had  arrived,  and  Ernest 
and  Sophie  had  gone  to  secure  Meeta's  promise  to  officiate  as 
bride's-maid  in  the  simple  ceremony  of  the  morrow.  They  were 
to  be  married  at  the  parsonage,  in  the  presence  of  a  few  witnesses 
only,  and  were  immediately  to  set  out  on  an  excursion  which 
would  occupy  several  weeks.  They  had  urged  Meeta  to  accom 
pany  them,  but  she  had  declined.  "But  she  cannot  refuse  to 
stand  up  with  me — do  you  think  she  can  ?"  said  Sophie  to  her 
sister,  as  she  prepared  to  accompany  Ernest  to  Carl  Werner's. 

"  I  do  not  think  she  will  refuse,"  Mrs.  Schwartz  replied. 

"  You  do  not  think  she  will ! "  repeated  Mr.  Schwartz,  in  an 
accent  of  surprise,  to  his  wife,  when  Ernest  and  Sophia  had  left 
them.  "  How  does  that  consist  with  your  idea  of  Meeta's  love 
for  Ernest?" 

"It  perfectly  consists  with  a  love  like  Meeta's;  a  love  without 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  169 

any  alloy  of  selfishness.  Dear  Meeta !  how  little  is  her  nobleness 
appreciated !  Even  I  dare  not  let  her  see  that  she  is  understood 
by  me,  lest  I  should  wound  her  delicate  and  generous  nature." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  Mr.  Schwartz  said,  hesitatingly, 
"  If  it  be  as  you  think,  Meeta  is  a  noble  being  ;  but " 

"  If  it  be,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Schwartz,  with  warmth.  "  Can 
you  doubt  it  ?  Have  you  not  seen  the  loftier  character  which 
her  generous  purpose  has  impressed  upon  her  whole  aspect  ?  the 
elevation — I  had  almost  said  the  inspiration,  which  beams  from 
her  face  when  Ernest  and  Sophie  are  present?  Sophie  is  my 
sister,  and  I  love  her  truly ;  yet  I  declare  to  you,  at  such  times  I 
have  looked  from  her  to  Meeta,  and  wondered  at  what  seemed  to 
me  Ernest's  infatuation." 

"  Sophie  is  fair  and  delicate  and  accomplished,  the  very 
personification  of  refinement,  natural  and  acquired,  and  the 
antipodes  of  all  which  Ernest,  ere  he  saw  her,  had  begun  to 
dread  in  the  untaught  Meeta  of  his  memory.  I  am  not  surprised 
at  all  at  his  loving  Sophie,  but  I  cannot  at  all  understand  how 
the  simple  and  single-hearted  Meeta  can  feign  so  long  and  so 
well,  as  on  your  supposition  she  has  done." 

"  Feign !  Meeta  feign !  I  never  said  or  thought  such  a  thing. 
A  course  of  action  lofty  as  Meeta 's  must  have  its  foundation  deep 
in  the  heart,  in  principles  enduring  as  life  itself.  Had  Meeta's  been 
the  commonplace  feigned  satisfaction  with  Ernest's  conduct  to 
which  pride  might  have  given  birth,  she  would  have  been  fitful 
in  her  moods ;  alternately  gay  or  gloomy ;  generous  and  kind,  or 
petulant  and  exacting.  The  serenity,  the  composure  of  counte 
nance  and  manner  which  distinguish  our  Meeta,  spring  from  a 
higher,  purer  source.  It  is  the  sweet  submission  of  a  chastened, 
loving  spirit,  which  can  say  to  its  FATHER  in  Heaven  :— 


170  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

'  BECAUSE  my  portion  was  assigned, 
Wholesome  and  bitter,  THOU  art  kind, 
And  I  am  blessed  to  my  mind.' " 

"A  state  of  feeling  to  be  preferred  certainly  to  the  gratifica 
tion  of  any  earthly  affection ;  but  I  scarcely  see  how  it  can  accord 
with  Meeta's  continued  love  of  Ernest." 

"  That  is  because  you  do  not  separate  love  from  the  selfish 
desires  with  which  it  is  too  generally  accompanied.  Meeta  loves 
Ernest  so  truly,  so  entirely,  that  she  cannot  be  said  to  yield  her 
happiness  to  his,  but  rather  to  find  it  in  his;  his  joy,  his  honor, 
are  hers." 

"And  can  woman  feel  thus?"  asked  Mr.  Schwartz,  as  he 
looked  with  admiration  upon  his  wife,  her  cheeks  glowing  and 
her  eyes  lighted  with  the  enthusiasm  of  a  spirit  akin  to  Meeta's. 

"  There  are  many  mysteries  in  woman  which  you  have  yet  to 
fathom,"  said  Mrs.  Schwartz,  with  a  smile. 

To  the  good  pastor  and  his  wife,  the  next  day,  even  Sophie 
was  a  less  interesting  object  of  contemplation  than  Meeta,  who 
stood  at  her  side.  She  was  pale,  very  pale,  and  dressed  with 
even  more  than  usual  simplicity ;  yet  there  was  in  her  face  so 
much  of  the  soul's  light,  that  she  seemed  to  them  beautiful. 
Her  congratulations  were  offered  in  speechless  emotion.  The 
brotherly  kiss  which  Ernest  pressed  upon  her  cheek  called  up 
no  color  there,  nor  disturbed  the  graceful  stillness  of  her  manner ; 
and  when  Sophie,  who  had  really  become  sincerely  attached  to 
her,  threw  herself  into  her  arms,  she  returned  her  embrace  with 
tenderness,  whispering  as  she  did  so,  "  Make  Ernest  happy,  So 
phie,  and  I  will  love  you  always  !" 

And  now  what  have  we  more  to  tell  of  Meeta  ?  It  cannot  be 
denied  that  there  were  hours  of  darkness,  in  which  the  joyous 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  171 

hopes  and  memories  of  "her  youth  rose  up  vividly  before  her, 
making  her  present  life  seem  sad  and  lonely  in  contrast.  But 
these  visitors  from  the  realm  of  shadows  were  neither  evoked  nor 
welcomed  by  Meeta.  Eesolutely  she  turned  from  the  dead  past, 
to  the  active,  living  present,  determined  that  no  shadow  from  her 
should  darken  the  declining  days  of  her  father  and  mother.  She 
is  the  light  of  their  home,  and  often  they  bless  the  Providence 
which  has  left  her  with  them.  What  would  they  have  done 
without  her  cheerful  voice  to  inspire  them  in  bearing  the  burdens 
of  advancing  life  ? 

But  not  only  in  her  home  was  Meeta  a  consolation  and  a 
blessing.  The  poor,  the  sick,  the  sorrowing,  knew  ever  where  to 
find  true  sympathy  and  ready  aid.  She  was  the  "  Lady  Bounti 
ful"  of  her  neighborhood.  But  there  was  one  house  where  more 
especially  her  presence  was  welcomed ;  where  no  important  step 
was  taken  without  her  advice ;  where  sorrow  was  best  soothed 
by  her,  and  joy  but  half  complete  till  she  had  shared  it.  This 
house  was  Ernest  Earner's.  To  him  and  Sophie  she  was  a  cher 
ished  sister,  to  whose  upright  and  self-forgetting  nature  they 
looked  up  with  a  species  of  reverence ;  and  to  their  children  she 
was  "Dear  Aunt  Meeta!  the  kindest  and  best  friend,  except 
mamma,  in  the  world !" 

How  many  more  useful,  more  noble,  or  happier  persons  than 
our  old  maid  can  married  life  present  ?  Is  she  not  more  worthy 
of  imitation  than  the  "  Celias"  and  "  Daphnes"  whose  delicate 
distresses  have  formed  the  staple  of  circulating  libraries,  or  than 
those  feeble  spirits  in  real  life,  who,  mistaking  selfishness  for  sen 
sibility,  turn  thanklessly  from  the  blessings  and  coldly  from  the 
duties  of  life,  because  they  have  been  denied  the  gratification  of 
some  cherished  desire  ? 


CHAPTER  X. 

IT  is  Christmas,  merry  Christmas,  as  we  have  been  duly  informed 
this  morning  by  every  inhabitant  of  Donaldson  Manor,  from  Col. 
Donaldson  to  the  pet  and  baby  Sophy  Dudley,  who  was  taught 
the  words  but  yesterday,  for  the  occasion.  Last  evening  our 
readings  were  interrupted,  for  all  were  busy  in  preparing  for  this 
important  day.  Miss  Donaldson  was  superintending  jellies  and 
blanc-manges,  custards  and  Charlottes  des  Busses;  Col.  and 
Mrs.  Donaldson  were  preparing  gifts  for  their  servants,  not  one 
of  whom  was  forgotten,  and  Annie  and  I,  and,  by  his  own  spe 
cial  request,  Mr.  Arlington,  were  arranging  in  proper  order  the 
gifts  of  that  most  considerate,  mirthful  and  generous  of  spirits, 
Santa  Glaus.  This  morning  the  sun  rose  as  clear  and  bright  as 
if  it,  too,  rejoiced  in  the  joy  of  humanity ;  but  long  before  the 
sun  had  shown  himself,  little  feet  were  pattering  from  room  to 
room,  and  childish  voices  shouting  in  the  unchecked  exuberance 
of  delight.  I  sometimes  doubt  whether  the  children  are  so  hap 
py  as  I  am,  on  such  occasions.  One  incident  that  occurred  this 
morning  would  have  been  enough,  in  my  opinion,  to  repay  all 
the  time,  the  trouble,  and  the  gold,  which  Santa  Glaus,  or  his 
agents,  had  expended  on  their  preparations.  Aroused  by  the 
voices  of  the  children,  I  threw  on  a  dressing-gown  and  hastened 
to  the  room  appropriated  to  their  patron  saint,  which  I  entered 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  173 

at  one  door  just  as  little  Eva  Dudley  appeared  at  another.  With 
out  being  in  the  least  a  beauty,  Eva  has  the  most  charming  face  I 
know ;  merry  and  bright  as  Puck's,  or  as  her  own  life,  which  from 
its  earliest  dawn  has  been  joyous  as  a  bird's  carol.  She  gazed  now 
with  eager  delight  on  the  toys  exhibited  by  her  brothers  and  sis 
ters,  without,  apparently,  one  thought  of  herself,  till  Eobert  said, 
"  But  see  here,  Eva,  look  at  your  own." 

As  her  eyes  rested  on  the  large  baby-house,  with  its  folding- 
doors  open  to  display  the  furniture  of  the  parlors  and  the  two 
dolls,  mother  and  daughter,  seated  at  a  table  on  which  stood  a 
neat  china  breakfasting  set,  she  clasped  her  dimpled  hands  in  si 
lent  ecstasy  for  half  a  minute,  then  rising  to  her  utmost  height 
on  her  rosy  little  toes,  she  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  isn't  I  a  happy  little 
woman !" 

Dear  Eva !  a  little  girl's  heart  would  not  have  seemed  to  her 
large  enough  to  contain  such  rapture. 

Our  party  has  been  augmented  since  breakfast  by  the  arrival 
of  several  families  of  Donaldsons — some  of  whom  live  at  too 
great  a  distance  for  visits  at  any  other  time  than  Christmas,  when 
all  who  stand  in  any  conceivable,  or  I  was  about  to  say  incon 
ceivable,  degree  of  relationship  to  the  Donaldsons  of  Donaldson 
Manor,  are  expected  to  be  here.  Among  this  host  of  uncles  and 
aunts  and  cousins,  I  was  really  grateful  for  my  own  prefix  of 
aunt,  and  I  heard  Mr.  Arlington  whisper  a  request  to  Eobert  to 
call  him  uncle — a  title  to  which  I  have  no  doubt  he  would  wil 
lingly  make  good  his  claim. 

In  the  midst  of  this  general  hilarity,  the  religious  character 

of  the  day  was  not  forgotten,  and  all  the  family  and  some  of  the 

visitors  attended  the  morning  services  in  the  church.     We  know 

that  there  are  those  who,  doubting  the  testimony  on  which  the 

9 


174  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

Christian  world  has  agreed  to  observe  the  25th  of  December  as 
the  birthday  into  our  mortal  life  of  the  world's  Saviour,  and  the 
era  from  which  man  may  date  his  hopes  of  a  happy  immortality, 
consider  the  religious  observances  of  this  day  a  sheer  supersti 
tion.  On  such  a  controversy  I  could  say  but  little,  and  I  would 
be  very  unwilling  to  say  that  little  here ;  but  I  would  ask  if  it 
can  be  wrong  in  the  opinion  of  any — nay,  if  it  be  not  right, 
very  right,  in  the  opinion  of  all,  to  celebrate  once  in  the  year  an 
event  so  solemn  and  so  joyous  to  our  race;  and  whether  any  day 
can  be  better  for  such  a  purpose,  than  that  which  has  been  for 
centuries  associated  with  it  wherever  the  Angels'  song  of  "Peace 
on  earth  and  good  will  to  man"  has  been  heard?  Another  class 
of  objectors  there  are  who  complain  that  a  day  so  sacred  should 
be  desecrated,  as  they  express  it,  by  revelry  and  mirth.  To  their 
objection  I  should  not  have  a  word  of  reply,  if  it  were  limited  to 
a  condemnation  of  that  wild  uproar  and  senseless  jollity  by  which 
men  sometimes  make  fools  or  brutes  of  themselves ;  but  when 
they  condemn  the  cheerfulness  that  has  its  home  and  its  birth 
place  in  a  grateful  heart,  when  they  frown  upon  the  happy  fam 
ily  gathering  once  more  within  the  old  walls  that  had  echoed  to 
their  childish  gambols,  calling  up  by  the  spells  of  association, 
from  the  dim  recesses  of  the  past,  the  very  tones  and  looks  of  the 
mother  that  watched  their  cradled  sleep,  and  the  father  that 
guided  their  first  tottering  steps  in  the  pursuit  of  truth ;  tones 
and  looks  by  which,  if  by  any  thing,  the  cold,  selfish  spirit  of 
the  world  to  whose  dominion  they  have  yielded,  may  be  exor 
cised,  and  the  loving  and  generous  spirit  of  their  earlier  life  may 
again  enter  within  them ;  when  they  declare  these  things  incon 
sistent  with  the  Christian's  joyful  commemoration  of  that  event 
to  which  he  owes  his  earthly  blessings  as  well  as  his  heavenly 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  175 

hopes,  I  can  only  pity  them  for  their  want  of  harmony  with  the 
Great  Spirit  of  the  Universe,  the  spirit  of  Love  and  Joy. 

Our  Christmas  was  continued  and  concluded  in  the  same  spirit 
in  which  it  was  commenced,  —  the  spirit  of  kindly  affection  to 
Man  and  devout  gratitude  to  Heaven.  Those  guests  whose  homes 
were  distant  remained  for  the  night,  and  in  the  evening,  before 
any  of  our  party  had  left  us,  Col.  Donaldson  called  on  Eobert 
Dudley  to  repeat  a  poem  which  he  had  learned  at  his  request  for 
the  occasion.  Robert  was  a  little  abashed  at  first  at  being  brought 
forward  so  conspicuously  ;  but  he  is  a  manly,  intelligent  boy,  and 
his  voice  soon  gathered  strength  and  firmness,  and  his  eyes  lost 
their  downward  tendency,  and  kindled  with  earnest  feeling,  as  he 
recited  those  beautiful  lines  of  Charles  Sprague,  entitled, 


We  are  all  here  ! 

Father,  mother, 

Sister,  brother, 

All  who  hold  each  other  dear. 
Each  chair  is  filled,  we're  all  at  home  ; 
To-night  let  no  cold  stranger  come  ; 
It  is  not  often  thus  around 
Our  own  familiar  hearth  we're  found. 
Bless,  then,  the  meeting  and  the  spot; 
For  once  be  every  care  forgot  ; 
Let  gentle  Peace  assert  her  power, 
And  kind  affection  rule  the  hour; 

We're  all  —  all  here. 

We're  NOT  all  here  ! 
Some  are  away  —  the  dead  ones  dear, 


176  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

Who  thronged  with  us  this  ancient  hearth, 
And  gave  the  hour  to  guiltless  mirth. 
Fate,  with  a  stern,  relentless  hand, 
Looked  in  and  thinned  our  little  band ; 
Some  like  a  night-flash  passed  away, 
And  some  sank,  lingering,  day  by  day ; 
The  quiet  grave-yard — some  lie  there — 
And  cruel  Ocean  has  his  share — 
We're  not  all  here. 

We  are  all  here ! 

Even  they — the  dead — though  dead  so  dear. 
Fond  Memory,  to  her  duty  true 
Brings  back  their  faded  forms  to  view. 
How  life-like,  through  the  mist  of  ytars, 
Each  well-remembered  face  appears  ! 
We  see  them  as  in  times  long  past, 
From  each  to  each  kind  looks  are  cast, 
We  hear  their  words,  their  smiles  behold, 
They're  round  us  as  they  were  of  old — 

We  are  all  here. 

We  are  all  here ! 

Father,  mother, 

Sister,  brother, 

You  that  I  love  with  love  so  dear. 
This  may  not  long  of  us  be  said, 
Soon  must  we  join  the  gathered  dead, 
And  by  the  hearth  we  now  sit  round 
Some  other  circle  will  be  found. 
Oh,  then,  that  wisdom  may  we  know, 
Which  yields  a  life  of  peace  below ! 
So,  in  the  world  to  follow  this, 
May  each  repeat,  in  words  of  bliss, 

We're  all — all  here ! 


CHAPTER  XL 

YESTERDAY  we  were  more  than  usually  still  after  the  enjoy 
ment  of  Christmas,  and  a  little  quiet  chit-chat  seemed  all  of  which 
we  were  capable,  but  to-day  every  thing  about  us  and  within  us 
began  to  settle  into  its  usual  form,  and  this  evening  there  was  a 
general  call  for  our  accustomed  entertainment.  I  was  inexorable 
to  all  entreaties,  and  Mr.  Arlington  was  compelled  to  open  his 
portfolio  for  our  gratification. 

"Select  your  subject,"  he  said  with  a  smile,  as  he  drew  forth 
sketch  after  sketch  and  spread  them  on  the  table  before  us.  "I 
have  no  story  to  tell  of  any  of  them." 

"  I  select  this,"  said  Annie,  as  she  held  up  the  drawing  en 
graved  on  the  opposite  page. 

"The  Exiled  Hebrews,"  said  Mr.  Arlington,  as  he  glanced  at 
it.  "  You  have  chosen  well ;  that  picture  tells  its  own  story." 

"But  have  you  really  nothing  to  say  of  these  figures,  so 
noble,  yet  so  touching  in  their  aspect  ?" 

"  No ;  nothing  of  them.  I  could  tell  you  indeed  of  a  dying 
Hebrew,  whose  portrait  you  may  without  any  great  stretch  of 
imagination,  suppose  you  have  before  you  in  that  turbaned  old 
gentleman." 

"  Well,  let  us  hear  it." 

12 


178  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 


A  HEBREW  knelt  in  the  dying  light, 

His  eye  was  dim  and  cold, 
The  hair  on  his  brow  was  silver  white, 

And  his  blood  was  thin  and  old. 
He  lifted  his  eye  to  his  latest  sun, 
For  he  felt  that  his  pilgrimage  was  done, 
And  as  he  saw  God's  shadow*  there, 
His  spirit  poured  itself  in  prayer. 
"  I  come  unto  Death's  second  birth 

Beneath  a  stranger  air, 
A  pilgrim  on  a  chill,  cold  earth, 

As  all  my  fathers  were ; 
And  men  have  stamped  me  with  a  curse, 

I  feel  it  is  not  Thine. 
Thy  mercy,  like  yon  sun,  was  made 

On  me,  as  all  to  shine ; 
And  therefore  dare  I  lift  mine  eye 
Through  that  to  Thee,  before  I  die. 
In  this  great  temple,  built  by  Thee, 

Whose  altars  are  divine, 
Beneath  yon  lamp  that  ceaselessly 

Lights  up  Thine  own  true  shrine, 
Take  this  my  latest  sacrifice, 

Look  down  and  make  this  sod 
Holy  as  that  where  long  ago 

The  Hebrew  met  his  God. 
I  have  not  caused  the  widow's  tears, 

Nor  dimmed  the  orphan's  eye, 

*  Plato  calls  Truth  the  body  of  God,  and  Light  His  shadow. 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  179 

I  have  not  stained  the  virgin's  years, 

Nor  mocked  the  mourner's  cry. 
The  songs  of  Zion  in  my  ear 

Have  ever  been  most  sweet, 
And  always  when  I  felt  Thee  near, 

My  shoes  were  '  off  my  feet.' 
1  have  known  Thee  in  the  whirlwind, 

I  have  known  Thee  on  the  hill, 
I  have  known  Thee  in  the  voice  of  birds, 

In  the  music  of  the  rill. 
I  dreamt  Thee  in  the  shadow, 

I  saw  Thee  in  the  light, 
I  heard  Thee  in  the  thunder-peal, 

And  worshipped  in  the  night. 
All  beauty,  while  it  spoke  of  Thee, 

Still  made  my  heart  rejoice, 
And  my  spirit  bowed  within  itself 

To  hear  '  Thy  still,  small  voice.' 
I  have  not  felt  myself  a  thing 

Far  from  Thy  presence  driven, 
By  flaming  sword  or  waving  wing 

Cut  off  from  Thee  and  Heaven. 
Must  I  the  whirlwind  reap,  because, 

My  fathers  sowed  the  storm  ? 
Or  shrink  because  another  sinned, 

Beneath  Thy  red,  right  arm  ? 
Oh !  much  of  this  we  dimly  scan, 

And  much  is  all  unknown, 
I  will  not  take  my  curse  from  man, 

I  turn  to  THEE  alone. 
Oh !  bid  my  fainting  spirit  live, 

And  what  is  dark,  reveal, 
And  what  is  evil — oh,  forgive ! 

And  what  is  broken — heal. 


180  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

And  cleanse  my  spirit  from  above, 

In  the  deep  Jordan  of  Thy  love ! 

I  know  not  if  the  Christian's  Heaven, 

Shall  be  the  same  as  mine, 
I  only  ask  to  be  forgiven, 

And  taken  home  to  THINE. 
I  weary  on  a  far,  dim  strand, 

Whose  mansions  are  as  tombs, 
And  long  to  find  the  Father-land, 

Where  there  are  many  homes. 
Oh !  grant  of  all  yon  shining  throngs 

Some  dim  and  distant  star, 
Where  Judah's  lost  and  scattered  sons 

May  worship  from  afar ! 
When  all  earth's  myriad  harps  shall  meet 

In  choral  praise  and  prayer, 
Shall  Zion's  harp,  of  old  so  sweet, 

Alone  be  wanting  there  ? 
Yet  place  me  in  the  lowest  seat, 

Though  I,  as  now,  lie  there, 
The  Christian's  jest — the  Christian's  scorn, 

Still  let  me  see  and  hear, 
From  some  bright  mansion  in  the  sky, 
Thy  loved  ones  and  their  melody." 

The  sun  goes  down  with  sudden  gleam, 
And  beautiful  as  a  lovely  dream, 

And  silently  as  air, 
The  vision  of  a  dark-eyed  girl 

With  long  and  raven  hair, 
Glides  in  as  guardian  spirits  glide, 
And  lo !  is  standing  by  his  side, 
As  if  her  sudden  presence  there 
Was  sent  in  answer  to  his  prayer. 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  181 

Oh !  say  they  not  that  angels  tread 
Around  the  good  man's  dying  bed  ? 
His  child — his  sweet  and  sinless  child, 

And  as  he  gazed  on  her, 
He  knew  his  God  was  reconciled, 

And  this  the  messenger. 
As  sure  as  God  had  hung  on  high 
His  promise-bow  before  his  eye, 
Earth's  purest  hopes  were  o'er  him  flung, 

To  point  his  Heaven-ward  faith, 
And  life's  most  holy  feelings  strung 

To  sing  him  into  death. 
And  on  his  daughter's  stainless  breast, 
The  dying  Hebrew  sought  his  rest.* 

"Have  I  fulfilled  my  task?"  asked  Mr.  Arlington,  as  he 
touched  the  picture  on  which  Annie's  eyes  were  still  fastened. 

"  By  no  means,"  she  answered ;  "  the  poem  is  beautiful,  but  I 
want  to  know  more  of  the  picture.  Is  it  your  own  design  ?" 

"  Oh,  no !  It  is  a  copy  of  a  copy.  The  original  is  by  Bie- 
derrmanns,  and  may  be  seen,  I  believe,  in  the  Dresden  Gallery. 
This  sketch  was  made  from  a  copy  in  the  possession  of  my  friend, 
Mr.  Michael  Grahame.  He  had  it  done  while  he  was  in  Eussia. 
By  the  by — if  I  had  Aunt  Nancy's  powers  as  a  raconteur,  I  think 
I  could  interest  you  in  the  history  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grahame." 

"  Let  us  have  it,"  exclaimed  Col.  Donaldson ;  "  we  will  be 
lenient  in  our  criticisms ;  and  should  we  ever  call  on  you  to  give 
it  to  severer  critics,  Aunt  Nancy  will  dress  it  up  for  you." 

*  These  lines — all  that  were  worth  preserving  in  it — were  extracted  from  a 
satirical  poem  published  in  England  many  years  since,  under  the  title  of  "  The 
Devil's  Progress." 


182  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

Mr.  Arlington  in  vain  sought  to  excuse  himself. 

"It  is  of  no  use,"  cried  Col.  Donaldson;  "I  am  a  thorough 
bred  story  hunter,  and  now  you  have  shown  me  the  game,  I 
must  have  it." 

To  Mr.  Arlington,  therefore,  the  reader  is  indebted  for  the 
following  incidents,  though  I  have  fulfilled  the  promise  made  for 
me  by  the  Colonel  and  dressed  it  up  a  little  for  its  present  ap 
pearance.  I  have  called  the  narrative  thus  prepared, 


dDttltf  n  JB 


WITH  beauty,  wealth,  an  accomplished  education,  and  a  home 
around  which  clustered  all  the  warm  affections  and  graceful  ame 
nities  of  life,  Lilian  Devoe  was  considered  by  her  acquaintances 
as  one  of  fortune's  most  favored  children.  Yet  in  Lilian's  bright 
sky  there  was  a  cloud,  though  it  was  perceptible  to  none  but 
herself.  She  was  the  daughter  of  an  Englishman,  who,  on  his 
arrival  in  America  with  a  sickly  wife  and  infant  child,  had  es 
teemed  himself  fortunate  in  obtaining  the  situation  of  farmer  at 
Mr.  Trevanion's  country-seat,  near  New-York. 

"This  is  a  pleasant  home,  Gerald,"  said  Mrs.  Devoe,  on  the 
day  she  took  possession  of  her  small  but  neat  cottage,  as  she 
stood  with  him  beneath  a  porch  embowered  with  honeysuckle, 
and  looked  out  upon  a  scene  to  which  hill  and  dale  and  river 
combined  to  give  enchantment. 

"  If  you  can  be  well  and  happy  in  it,  love,  I  will  try  and  for 
get  that  I  had  a  right  to  a  better,"  said  Gerald  Devoe,  with  a 
grave,  yet  tender  smile,  as  he  drew  his  invalid  wife  close  to  his 
side. 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  183 

Grave,  Gerald  Devoe  always  was ;  and  none  wondered  at  it 
who  knew  his  early  history.  His  family  belonged  to  the  gentry  of 
England,  and  he  had  been  born  to  an  inheritance  sufficient  to  sup 
port  him  respectably  in  that  class.  His  mother,  from  whom  he  de 
rived  a  sound  judgment,  and  a  firm  and  vigorous  mind,  died  while 
he  was  yet  a  child,  leaving  his  weak  and  self-indulgent  father  to 
the  management  of  a  roguish  attorney,  by  whose  aid  he  made  the 
future  maintain  the  present,  till,  at  his  death,  little  was  left  to 
Gerald  beyond  the  bare  walls  of  his  paternal  home  and  the  small 
park  which  surrounded  it  He  had  been,  for  two  years  before 
this  time,  married  to  one  who  had  brought  him  little  wealth, 
and  whose  delicate  health  seemed  to  demand  the  luxuries  which 
he  could  no  longer  afford.  For  her  sake,  far  more  than  for  his 
own — even  more  than  for  that  of  his  cherished  child,  he  shrank 
from  the  new  condition  under  which  life  was  presenting  itself  to 
him.  When  at  length  his  recources  utterly  failed,  and  he  could 
no  longer  veil  the  truth  from  his  wife,  her  gentle,  tender  smile, 
her  confiding  caress,  and  above  all,  her  ready  inquiry  into  his 
plans  for  the  future,  and  her  earnest  effort  to  aid  him  in  bringing 
the  chaos  of  his  mind  into  order,  taught  him  that  there  lies  in 
woman's  affections  a  source  of  strength  equal  to  all  the  require 
ments  of  those  who  have  won  their  way  to  that  hidden  fountain. 
It  was  by  her  advice  that,  instead  of  wasting  his  energies  in  the 
vain  struggle  to  maintain  his  present  position,  he  determined  to 
carve  out  for  himself  a  new  life  in  another  land.  The  first  step 
towards  the  fulfilment  of  this  resolution  was  also  the  most  painful. 
It  was  the  sacrifice  of  his  home,  the  home  of  his  childhood, 
his  youth,  his  manhood,  with  which  all  that  was  dear  in 
the  present  or  tender  in  the  past  was  associated.  And  yet 
higher  claims  it  had.  It  had  been  the  home  of  his  fathers.  For 


184.  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

three  hundred  years  those  walls  had  owned  a  Devoe  for  their 
master,  and  now  they  must  pass  into  a  stranger's  hands,  and  he 
and  his  must  go  forth  with  no  right  even  to  a  grave  in  that  soil 
which  had  seemed  ever  an  inalienable  part  of  himself.  It  was  a 
stern  lesson,  but  life  teaches  well,  and  it  was  learned.  lie  could 
not  turn  to  the  liberal  professions  for  a  support,  because  he  had 
no  means  of  maintaining  himself  and  his  family  during  the  pre 
paratory  studies.  Of  farming  he  knew  already  something,  and 
spent  some  months  in  acquiring  yet  further  information  respect 
ing  it,  before  he  sailed  from  England.  The  determination  and 
energy  with  which  Gerald  Devoe  had  entered  on  his  new  career, 
had  won  for  him  friends  among  practical  men,  and  when  he  left 
England  it  was  with  recommendations  that  insured  his  success. 

It  was  a  fortunate  circumstance  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Devoe  that 
Mr.  Trevanion  was  wanting  a  farmer  on  their  arrival,  for  in  him 
and  his  wife  they  found  liberal  employers,  and  persons  of  true 
Christian  benevolence,  who,  having  discovered  the  superiority  of 
their  minds  and  manners  to  their  present  station,  hesitated  not  to 
receive  them  into  their  circle  of  friends,  when  a  knowledge  of  their 
past  history  had  acquainted  them  with  their  claims  on  their  sym 
pathy.  However  valuable  the  friendship  of  persons  at  once  so 
accomplished  and  so  excellent  was  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Devoe,  for 
their  own  sakes,  they  prized  it  yet  more  for  their  Lilian's.  She 
was  their  only  child,  and  their  poverty  lost  its  last  sting  when  they 
saw  her  linked  arm  in  arm  with  young  Anna  Trevanion,  the 
companion  of  her  lessons  and  her  sports.  They  could  not  have 
borne  to  see  her,  so  lovely  in  outward  form,  and  with  a  mind  so 
full  of  intelligence,  condemned  either  to  the  dreariness  of  a  life 
without  companionship,  or  to  the  degradation  of  association  with 
the  rude  and  uncultivated.  That  this  feeling  was  wholly  discon- 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  135 

nected  with  any  false  views  of  their  own  position,  or  vain  estima 
tion  of  the  claims  derived  from  their  birth  and  former  condition, 
was  evident  from  their  readiness  to  receive  into  their  friendly  re 
gards  those  in  their  present  sphere  in  whose  moral  qualities  they 
could  confide,  and  who  did  not  repel  their  courtesies  by  a  rude 
and  coarse  manner.  There  was  one  of  this  latter  class  who  held 
a  place  in  their  esteem  not  less  exalted  than  that  occupied  by 
Mr.  Trevanion  himself.  This  was  a  Scotchman,  living  within 
two  miles  of  Mr.  Trevanion's  seat,  who  found  at  once  an  agreea 
ble  occupation  and  a  respectable  support  in  a  garden,  from  which 
he  supplied  the  markets  of  New- York  with  some  of  their  choicest 
vegetables,  and  its  drawing-rooms  with  some  of  their  choicest  bou 
quets.  Mr.  Grahame  was  one  who,  in  those  early  ages  when  physical 
endowments  constituted  the  chief  distinction  between  men,  might 
have  been  chosen  king  of  the  tribe  with  which  he  had  chanced 
to  be  associated.  Even  now,  in  this  self-styled  enlightened  age, 
his  tall  and  stalwart  frame,  his  erect  carriage,  his  firm  and  vigor 
ous  step,  his  broad,  commanding  brow,  his  bright,  keen  eye,  and 
the  firm,  frank  expression  of  his  whole  face,  won  from  every  be 
holder  an  involuntary  feeling  of  respect,  which  further  acquaint 
ance  only  served  to  deepen.  With  little  of  the  education  of 
schools,  he  was  a  man  of  reading,  and,  what  schools  can  never 
make,  he  was  a  man  of  thought,  and  of  that  sober,  practical  good 
sense,  and  those  firm,  religious  principles  which  are  the  surest, 
the  only  true  and  safe  guides  in  life.  Mrs.  Grahame  was  a  gentle 
and  lovely  woman,  with  an  eye  to  see  and  a  heart  to  feel  her 
husband's  excellencies.  And  a  worthy  son  of  such  a  father  was 
Michael  Grahame,  the  only  child  of  this  excellent  pair.  He  was 
six  years  older  than  Lilian  Devoe,  and  having  no  sister  of  his 
own,  had  been  her  playfellow  and  protector  from  her  cradle. 


136  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

Even  Anna  Trevanion  could  not  rival  Michael  in  Lilian's  heart, 
nor  all  the  luxuries  of  Trevanion  Hall  compete  with  the  delight 
of  wandering  with  him  through  the  gardens  of  Mossgiel,  listen 
ing  to  his  history  of  the  various  plants — for  Michael  had  learned 
from  his  father  where  most  of  them  had  first  been  found,  and 
how  and  by  whom  they  had  been  introduced  to  their  present 
abodes — and  learning  from  him  the  chief  points  of  distinction 
between  the  different  tribes  of  the  vegetable  world,  and  many 
other  things  of  which  older  people  are  often  ignorant.  But  ac 
quainted  as  Michael  was  with  the  inhabitants  of  the  garden,  they 
did  not  afford  him  his  most  vivid  enjoyment.  Mechanical  pur 
suits  were  his  passion. 

Before  Lilian  was  four  years  old,  she  had  ridden  in  a  carriage 
of  his  construction,  which  he  boasted  the  most  unskilful  hand  on 
the  most  unequal  road  could  not,  except  from  malice  prepense, 
upset.  To  see  Michael  a  clergyman,  or,  if  that  might  not  be,  a 
lawyer,  was  Mrs.  Grahame's  dream  of  life ;  but  when  she  whis 
pered  it  to  her  husband,  he  shook  his  head,  with  a  grave  smile, 
and  pointed  to  the  boy,  who  stood  near,  putting  the  finishing 
touch  to  what  he  called  his  "  magical  glass."  This  was  the  case 
of  an  old  spy-glass,  in  which  he  had  so  disposed  several  mirrors, 
made  of  a  toilet  glass  long  since  broken,  as  to  enable  the  person 
using  the  instrument  to  see  objects  in  a  very  different  direction 
from  that  to  which  it  appeared  to  be  directed.  The  fond  parents 
watched  his  movements  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes — suddenly 
he  called  in  a  glad  voice,  "  Here,  father,  come  and  look  through 
my  magical  glass." 

Mr.  Grahame  obeyed  the  summons,  saying  to  his  wife,  "  He'll 
make  a  good  mechanic — better  not  spoil  that,  for  a  poor  clergy 
man  or  lawyer." 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  187 

Michael  had  the  advantage  of  the  best  schools  to  which  his 
father  could  gain  access,  and  his  teachers  joined  in  declaring  that 
his  father  might  make  what  he  would  of  him,  but  his  own  inclina 
tion  for  mechanics  continued  as  fixed  as  ever,  and  Mr.  Grahame 
was  equally  fixed  in  his  determination  to  let  his  inclination  decide 
his  career. 

"  Let  him  be  what  he  will,  he  must  be  something  above  the 
ordinary,  or  your  high  people  will  remember  against  him  that 
his  father  was  a  gardener,"  said  Mr.  Grahame  to  his  wife;  "and 
you  may  be  sure  he'll  rise  highest  in  what  he  loves." 

At  sixteen  Michael  Grahame  commenced  his  apprenticeship 
to  the  trade  of  a  mathematical  instrument  maker,  to  the  perfect 
satisfaction  of  himself  and  his  father,  the  secret  annoyance  of  his 
mother,  and  the  openly  expressed  chagrin  of  Lilian  Devoe,  who 
had  shared  all  Mrs.  Grahame's  ambitious  hopes  for  her  friend. 
From  this  period  Lilian  became  the  inseparable  companion  of  the 
young  Trevanions,  their  only  rival  in  her  heart  being  removed 
from  her  circle.  She  still  considered  Michael  as  greatly  superior 
to  them,  and  indeed  to  all  others,  in  personal  attributes,  but  she 
could  seldom  enjoy  his  society,  since  he  resided  in  the  city ;  and 
as  she  approached  to  womanhood,  and  he  exchanged  the  vivacity 
of  the  boy  for  the  man's  thoughtful  brow  and  more  controlled 
expression  of  feeling,  their  manner  in  their  occasional  interviews 
assumed  a  formality  which  made  it  a  poor  interpreter  of  their 
hearts'  true  emotions. 

At  seventeen  Lilian  Devoe  was  an  orphan,  left  to  the  guard 
ianship  of  Mr.  Trevanion  and  Mr.  Grahame,  with  a  fortune  which 
secured  to  her  a  prospect  of  all  the  comforts,  and  many  of  the 
elegancies  of  life.  This  fortune  was  the  result  of  a  successful 
speculation  made  by  Mr.  Devoe  about  a  year  before  his  death, 


183  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

with  the  little  sum  which,  by  judicious  management,  he  had 
saved  from  his  salary  during  many  years.  It  was  a  sum  too 
small  to  secure  to  his  daughter  a  maintenance  in  case  of  his  death, 
and  with  a  trembling  and  almost  despairing  heart  he  had  thrown 
it  on  the  troubled  sea  of  speculation.  From  that  hour  he  knew 
no  peace.  His  life  was  probably  shortened  by  his  anxieties,  and 
when  he  received  the  assurance  of  the  successful  issue  of  his  ex 
periment,  he  had  but  a  few  days  to  live.  Before  his  death,  Mr. 
Trevanion  had  spoken  very  kindly  to  him,  and  both  he  and 
Mrs.  Trevanion  had  expressed  the  most  friendly  interest  in 
Lilian,  and  had  offered  to  receive  her  as  a  member  of  their  own 
family,  when  her  "  home  should  be  left  unto  her  desolate."  Mr. 
Grahame  and  his  kind-hearted  wife  had  already  made  the  same 
offer,  and  Mr.  Devoe,  with  the  warmest  expression  of  gratitude, 
commended  his  daughter  to  the  guardianship  of  both  his  friends. 
It  was  winter  when  Mr.  Devoe  died — the  Trevanions  were  in  the 
city,  and,  by  her  own  wish,  Lilian  passed  the  first  few  months  of 
her  orphanage  at  the  cottage  of  Mr.  Grahame.  Never  was  an 
orphan  more  tenderly  received,  more  dearly  cherished. 

Michael  Grahame  had  now  acquired  his  trade,  and  had  en 
tered  into  an  already  established  and  profitable  business  with  his 
former  master,  who  predicted  hat  with  his  application,  and  his  un 
usual  talent  and  his  delight  both  in  the  theory  of  mechanics  and 
the  actual  development  of  that  theory  in  practice,  he  must  one 
day  acquire  a  high  reputation.  Perhaps  this  opinion  might  have 
been  in  some  degree  shaken  by  the  long  and  frequent  holidays 
of  his  young  partner  during  this  winter.  Michael  had  never 
been  so  much  at  home  since  he  left  it,  a  boy  of  sixteen,  and 
before  the  winter  had  passed,  all  formality  between  him  and 
Lilian  had  vanished.  Again  they  wandered  together,  as  in  child- 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  189 

hood,  through  the  garden  walks ;  again  Lilian  learned  to  regard 
him,  not  only  as  a  loved  friend,  but  as  a  guide  and  protector. 

Mrs.  Grahame  saw  the  growth  of  these  feelings  with  delight. 
She  loved  Lilian,  and  gave  the  highest  proof  of  her  esteem  for 
her,  in  believing  her  worthy  of  her  son.  Mr.  Grahame  was  less 
satisfied.  He,  too,  loved  Lilian,  and  would  have  welcomed  her 
to  his  heart  as  a  daughter,  but  her  lately  acquired  fortune,  and 
her  connection  with  the  Trevanion  family,  gave  her  a  right  to 
higher  expectations  in  marriage,  than  to  become  the  wife  of  a 
mechanic  of  very  moderate  fortunes,  however  great  was  his 
ability,  or  however  distinguished  his  personal  qualities.  No — 
Mr.  Grahame  was  not  satisfied,  and  nothing  but  his  confidence  in 
Michael  kept  him  silent.  The  confidence  was  not  misplaced. 

The  news  of  Lilian's  fortune,  and  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Trevanion's 
offer  to  receive  her  into  their  family,  had  sent  a  sharp  pang 
through  the  heart  of  Michael  Grahame,  which  had  taught  him 
the  true  character  of  his  attachment  to  her. 

"  She  is  removed  from  my  world — she  can  be  nothing  to  me 
now,"  was  the  first  stern  whisper  of  his  heart,  which  was  modi 
fied  after  two  or  three  interviews  into — "  She  can  only  be  a  dear 
friend  and  sister.  I  must  never  think  of  her  in  any  other  light." 
And,  devoted  as  he  had  been  to  her  through  the  winter,  no  word, 
no  look  had  told  of  love  less  calm  or  more  exacting  than  this. 
But  there  came  a  time  when  the  quick  blush  on  Lilian's  cheek  at 
his  approach,  the  tremor  of  her  little  hand  as  he  clasped  it,  told 
that  she  shared  his  feeling,  without  his  power  of  self-control. 
Then  came  the  hour  of  trial  to  Michael  Grahame's  nature.  Self- 
immolation  were  easy  in  comparison  with  the  infliction  of  one 
pang  on  her.  And  wherefore  should  either  suffer  ?  Was  it  not 
a  false  sentiment  that  denied  to  her  the  right  to  decide  for  her- 


190  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

self,  between  those  shows  and  fashions  which,  the  world  most 
prizes,  and  the  indulgence  of  the  purest  and  sweetest  affections 
of  our  nature  ?  Was  he  not  in  truth  sacrificing  her  happiness  to 
his  own  pride  ?  It  was  a  question  which  he  dared  not  answer  for 
himself,  and  he  applied  to  his  father,  in  whose  high  principles 
and  clear  judgment  he  placed  implicit  confidence.  Mr.  Grahame 
was  too  shrewd,  and  in  this  case  too  interested  an  observer  to  be 
unprepared  for  his  son's  avowal  of  his  past  feelings  and  present 
perplexities. 

"You  are  right,  my  son,"  he  replied  to  his  appeal;  "It  is 
Lilian's  right  to  decide  for  herself  on  that  which  will  constitute 
her  own  happiness." 

"  Then  I  may  speak  to  her — I  may  tell  her — " 

"All  you  desire  that  she  should  know,"  said  Mr.  Grahame, 
gently,  "when  Lilian  has  had  an  opportunity  of  knowing  what 
she  must  sacrifice  in  accepting  you." 

"  True — true — I  will  ask  no  promise  from  her — nay — I  will 
accept  none — I  will  only  assure  her  that  should  the  world  fail  to 
fill  her  heart,  the  truest  and  most  devoted  love  awaits  her  here." 

"  And  in  listening  to  that  assurance,  without  rebuking  it,  a 
delicate  woman  would  feel  that  she  had  pledged  herself." 

Michael  Grahame's  brow  contracted,  and  his  voice  faltered 
slightly  as,  after  a  moment's  thoughtful  pause,  he  asked,  "  What 
then  would  you  have  me  do?". 

"  Nothing  at  present — Lilian  will  soon  leave  us,  and  at  Mr. 
Trevanion's  she  will  see  quite  another  kind  of  life — a  life  which, 
with  her  fortune  and  their  friendship,  may  be  hers,  but  which 
she  must  give  up  if  she  become  the  wife  of  a  mechanic  and  the 
daughter-in-law  of  a  gardener.  Let  her  see  this  life,  my  boy, 
and  then  let  her  choose  between  you  and  it." 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  191 

"And  how  can  I  hope  that  she  will  continue  to  regard  me 
with  kindness  if  I  suffer  her  to  depart  without  any  expression  of 
interest  in  her?" 

"  Any  expression  of  interest !  I  do  not  wish  you  to  be  colder 
to  her  than  you  have  hitherto  been,  and  I  am  much  mistaken  if 
Lilian  would  exchange  your  Irotlierly  affection  for  all  the  gew 
gaws  in  life." 

"  I  will  endeavor  to  take  your  advice,  but  I  hope  I  shall  not 
be  tried  too  long,"  were  the  concluding  words  of  Michael  Gra- 
hame,  as  he  turned  from  his  father  to  seek  composure  in  a  soli 
tary  walk.  "When  he  had  returned,  he  found  that  his  father  had 
gone  to  the  city — an  unusual  circumstance  at  that  season,  and 
one  which  he  could  not  afterwards  avoid  connecting  with  a  letter 
which  Lilian  received  the  next  day  from  Anna  Trevanion,  before 
she  had  risen  from  the  breakfast  table. 

"  Papa,"  wrote  Miss  Trevanion,  "has  made  me  perfectly  hap 
py,  dear  Lilian,  by  declaring  that  he  cannot  consent  to  leave  you 
longer  in  the  country.  I  hope  you  will  not  find  it  very  difficult 
to  obey  his  commands  in  the  present  instance,  which  are,  that 
you  shall  be  ready  at  noon  to-morrow  to  accompany  him  to  the 
city,  where  you  will  find  Mamma  and  your  Anna,  waiting  to  re 
ceive  you  with  open  arms." 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Lilian  ?  Does  your  letter  bring  you 
bad  news?"  asked  Mrs.  Grahame,  as  she  saw  the  dejected  coun 
tenance  with  which  Lilian  sat  gazing  on  these  few  lines. 

Michael  said  nothing,  but,  as  Lilian  looked  up  to  answer  Mrs. 
Grahame,  she  saw  that  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her,  and  the 
blood  rushed  to  her  temples,  while  she  said,  "  It  is  only  a  note 
from  Anna  Trevanion,  to  say  that  her  father  is  coming  for  me  to 
day  at  noon, — and — and — "  Lilian  could  go  no  farther — her 


192  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

voice  faltered,  and  she  burst  into  tears.  Michael  Grahame  started 
from  his  chair,  but  a  movement  of  his  father's  arm  prevented 
his  approaching  Lilian,  and  unable  to  endure  the  scene,  he  rushed 
from  the  room  while  his  mother,  folding  the  weeping  girl  in  her 
arms,  exclaimed,  "  Don't  cry,  Lilian,  Mr.  Trevanion  will  not  cer 
tainly  make  you  go  with  him,  if  you  do  not  wish  it." 

"Hush,  hush,  good  wife,"  said  the  kind,  but  firm  voice  of 
Mr.  Grahame ;  "  Lilian  must  not  be  so  ungracious  to  such  friends 
as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Trevanion,  as  to  refuse  to  go  to  them  when  they 
wish  her.  Go,  my  dear  child,"  he  continued,  laying  his  hand  on 
her  bent  head ;  "  and  remember  that  no  day  will  be  so  happy  for 
us  as  that  in  which  you  come  back — if  indeed,"  he  added,  more 
gayly,  "  you  can  come  back  to  such  a  humble  home,  after  living 
among  great  folks." 

There  was  another  voice  for  which  Lilian  listened,  but  she 
listened  in  vain.  Her  first  feeling  on  perceiving  that  Michael 
Grahame  had  left  the  room  while  she  lay  weeping  in  his  mother's 
arms  was  very  bitter,  but  Mrs.  Grahame  soothed  her  by  saying, 
"Michael  couldn't  bear  to  see  you  crying,  dear,  so  when  his  fa 
ther  wouldn't  let  him  speak  to  you,  he  jumped  up  and  ran  off. 
Poor  Michael !  sadly  enough  he'll  miss  you." 

In  about  an  hour,  Michael  again  sought  Lilian,  bringing  with 
him  three  bouquets  of  hot-house  flowers.  Two  of  these  had  been 
arranged  by  his  father  for  Mrs.  and  Miss  Trevanion,  and  the  other 
was  of  flowers  which  he  had  himself  selected  for  Lilian.  She 
stood  beside  him  while  he  first  wrapped  the  stems  of  the  flowers 
in  a  wet  sponge,  and  then  put  them  into  a  box  to  defend  them 
from  the  cold.  This  was  done,  and  the  box  handed  to  Lilian 
without  a  word.  As  she  took  it,  she  asked  in  a  low  tone,  and 
turning  away  to  hide  her  embarrassment  as  she  spoke,  "  When 
shall  I  see  you  in  New- York  ?'T 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  193 

"  I  shall  be  in  New- York  very  soon,"  he  replied ;  "  perhaps 
to-morrow — but  we  move  there  in  such  different  spheres,  Lilian, 
that  I  do  not  know  when  we  shall  meet." 

"  Perhaps  never,"  said  Lilian,  endeavoring  not  very  success 
fully,  to  steady  her  voice  and  speak  with  nonchalance,  "  unless 
you  are  willing  to  leave  what  you  call  your  sphere  and  seek  me 
in  mine." 

"  I  only  need  your  permission  to  do  so  with  delight," — and 
so  charming  had  her  evident  emotion  made  her  in  his  eyes,  that 
Michael  could  not  refrain  from  pressing  her  hand  to  his  lips. 
There  was  no  anger  in  the  flush  which  this  action  brought  to 
Lilian's  cheek. 

Mr.  Trevanion  was  punctual  to  the  hour  of  his  appointment, 
and  only  descended  from  his  carriage  to  hand  Lilian  into  it. 

"  You  will  call  sometimes  to  see  how  your  ward  does,"  he 
said  good-humoredly  to  the  elder  Mr.  Grahame,  but  to  Michael 
not  a  word.  He  had  determined  to  discourage,  and  if  possible, 
completely  to  overthrow  an  intimacy  which  Mr.  Grahame  had 
acknowledged  to  him  was  not  unattended  with  danger.  Mr.  Tre 
vanion  was  a  man  of  liberal  mind,  yet  he  was  not  wholly  free 
from  the  prejudices  of  his  class,  which  made  the  highest  happi 
ness  the  result  of  the  highest  social  position.  There  is  in  the 
mind  of  man  so  unconquerable  a  desire  for  the  unattainable,  that 
it  is  not  wonderful  perhaps  that  this  opinion  should  be  enter 
tained  by  those  who  do  not  occupy  that  position ;  but  to  those 
who  do,  we  should  suppose  its  fallacy  would  stand  out  too  glar 
ingly  to  be  doubted  or  denied.  We  are  far  from  denying  the  ad 
vantages  of  rank  and  wealth ;  but  we  view  them  not  as  an  end, 
but  as  means  for  the  attainment  of  an  end,  and  that  end,  not  hap 
piness,  except  as  happiness  is  indissolubly  connected  with  the 
13 


194  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

perfection  of  our  own  powers,  and  with  the  extension  of  our  use 
fulness  to  others.  He  who,  like  Michael  Grahame,  can  command 
the  means  of  intellectual  cultivation  and  refinement,  and  a  fair 
arena  for  the  exercise  of  his  powers,  when  thus  cultivated,  need 
not  envy  the  possessor  of  larger  fortune  and  higher  station  with 
his  weightier  responsibilities  and  greater  temptations. 

Michael  Grahame  understood  Mr.  Trevanion's  coolness,  but 
he  was  not  one  to  retreat  from  an  unfought  field.  Three  days  had 
scarcely  given  to  Lilian  the  feeling  of  ease  in  her  new  home, 
when  he  called  on  her.  He  had  chosen  morning,  as  the  hour 
when  others  would  be  least  likely  to  dispute  her  attention  with 
him.  She  was  at  home — Mrs.  and  Miss  Trevanion  were  out — and 
a  long  tete-a-tete  almost  reconciled  him  to  her  new  abode.  He 
had  not  forgotten  his  father's  advice,  nor  taken  the  seal  from  his 
lips.  He  might  not  speak  to  her  of  love,  but  the  nicest  honor 
did  not  forbid  him  to  show  her  the  true  sympathy  and  affection 
of  a  friend.  In  a  few  days  he  called  again,  and  at  the  same  hour ; 
Miss  Devoe  was  not  at  home,  she  had  gone  out  with  Mrs.  and 
Miss  Trevanion.  Again  the  next  day  he  came  at  the  same  hour, 
and  the  answer  was  the  same.  He  called  in  the  afternoon  at  five 
o'clock,  and  she  was  at  dinner ;  at  seven  o'clock,  she  was  pre 
paring  for  an  evening  party,  and  begged  he  would  excuse  her. 
"I  will  seek  no  more,"  said  Michael  Grahame  at  length,  with 
proud  determination,  "to  enter  the  charmed  circle  which  shuts 
her  from  me  in  the  city.  They  cannot  keep  her  to  themselves 
always,  and  if  Lilian's  heart  be  what  I  deem  it,  it  will  take  more 
than  a  few  months  of  absence  to  efface  from  it  the  memories 
•of  years." 

A  few  days  only  after  this  determination,  Lilian  was  called 
down  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  to  see  Mr.  Grahame.  Early 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  195 

as  it  was,  the  furtive  glance  towards  her  mirror  and  the  hasty 
adjustment  of  her  ringlets,  might  have  suggested  to  an  observer, 
that  she  hoped  to  receive  in  her  visitor  one  who  had  an  eye  for 
beauty ;  and  the  sudden  change  that  passed  over  her  countenance 
as  she  entered  the  parlor  in  which  her  two  guardians  sat  in  earn 
est  talk,  would  have  awakened  strong  suspicions  that  she  did  not 
see  the  Mr.  Grahame  whom  she  had  expected.  Mr.  Trevanion 
rose  as  she  entered,  and  shaking  hands  with  Mr.  Grahame,  said 
kindly,  "  I  leave  you  with  Lilian,  Mr.  Grahame,  but  I  hope  to  see 
you  again  at  dinner — we  dine  at  five." 

"  Thank  you  sir,  but  I  hope  to  be  taking  tea  with  my  good 
woman  at  home  at  that  hour." 

"  Well,  I  will  hope  to  see  you  soon  again — you  must  call 
often  and  see  your  friend  Lilian." 

"  Why,  I've  been  thinking,  sir,  that  that  would  hardly  be 
best  for  any  of  us — and  to  tell  the  truth,  I  came  to-day  to  talk 
with  Lilian  about  that  very  thing,  and  if  you  please,  I  have  no 
objection  that  you  should  hear  what  I  have  to  say." 

Mr.  Trevanion  seated  himself  again,  and  Lilian  placing  herself 
on  the  sofa  beside  him,  Mr.  Grahame  resumed  : — "  It  seems  to 
me,  sir,  that  Lilian  has  to  choose  between  two  kinds  of  life,  that 
if  she  tries  to  put  them  together  will  only  spoil  one  another,  and 
I  want  her  to  have  a  fair  chance  to  judge  between  them.  Now, 
you  know,  sir,  I  speak  the  truth  when  I  say  that  there  are  many 
among  the  fine  gay  people  whom  Lilian  will  meet  at  your  house, 
who  would  look  down  upon  her  for  having  such  friends  as  me 

and  my  wife,  or  even  my  son,  though  President  B says  he 

will  be  a  distinguished  man  yet." 

"  I  do  not  care  for  such  people,  or  for  what  they  think,"  ex 
claimed  Lilian  indignantly. 


196  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

"  I  dare  say  not,  my  dear  child,  and  yet  they  are  people  who 
are  thought  a  great  deal  of,  and  whom,  if  you  are  to  live  amongst 
them,  it  would  be  worth  your  while  to  please — but  that  isn't  my 
main  point,  Lilian.  What  I  want  to  say,  though  I  seem  to  be  long 
coming  at  it,  is,  that  I  want  you  to  see  this  gay  life  that  fine  folks 
in  the  city  lead,  at  its  best — without  any  such  drawbacks  as  it 
would  have  for  you,  if  you  were  suspected  of  having  ungen- 
teel  acquaintances,  and  so  we  shall  none  of  us  come  to  see 
you — barring  you  should  be  sick,  or  something  else  happen  to 
make  you  want  us — until  you  make  a  fair  trial,  for  six  months 
at  least,  of  this  life — then  if  the  beautiful,  rich  Miss  Devoe  likes 
the  old  gardener  and  Ms  family  well  enough  to  come  and  see  them, 
she  will  learn  how  fondly  and  truly  they  love  their  Lilian." 

"  I  had  hoped  you  loved  her  too  well  to  give  her  up  so  need 
lessly  for  six  months,  or  even  for  one  month,"  said  Lilian,  tears 
rushing  to  her  eyes. 

"  Ask  Mr.  Trevanion  if  I  am  not  right  in  what  I  have  said, 
my  dear  child,"  said  Mr.  Grahame  tenderly. 

"  I  will  not  dispute  the  correctness  of  your  principles  in  the 
main,  Mr.  Grahame,  but  I  hope  you  do  not  think  that  all  Lilian's 
fine  acquaintances,  as  you  call  them,  would  be  so  unjust  in  their 
judgment  as  to  think  the  less  of  her  for  her  love  of  you,  or  to 
undervalue  you  on  account  of  your  circumstances  in  life." 

"  No  sir — no  sir — I  don't  think  so  of  all — but  I  want  Lilian 
to  see  this  life  without  even  one  little  cloud  upon  it — such  a  cloud 
as  the  being  looked  down  upon,  though  it  was  by  people  she  didn't 
greatly  admire,  would  make.  We  have  our  pride  too,  sir,  and 
we  want  Lilian  to  try  for  herself  whether  our  friendship,  with  all 
its  good  and  its  bad,  be  worth  keeping.  She  is  too  good  and  af 
fectionate,  we  know,  to  shake  off  old  friends  that  love  her,  even 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  197 

if  they  become  troublesome — but  we  will  draw  ourselves  off,  and 
then  she  will  be  free  to  come  back  to  us  or  not  as  she  pleases. 
Now,  sir,  tell  me  frankly,  if  you  think  me  wrong." 

"  Not  wrong  in  principle,  as  I  said  before,  Mr.  Grahame,  but 
— excuse  me — you  required  me  to  be  frank — would  it  not  have 
been  better  to  have  made  this  withdrawal  gradually  and  quietly, 
in  such  a  manner  that  Lilian  would  not  have  noticed  it,  instead 
of  giving  her  the  pain  of  this  abrupt  severance  of  the  ties  be 
tween  you." 

"  A  great  deal  better,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Grahame,  coloring  with 
wounded  feeling,  and  fixing  his  clear,  keen  eye  full  on  Mr.  Tre- 
vanion, — "a  great  deal  better  if  I  wished  to  sever  those  ties — a 
great  deal  better  if  I  would  have  Lilian  believe  that  we  had 
grown  cold  and  indifferent  to  her.  But,  my  dear  child,"  and  he 
turned  to  her  and  taking  both  her  hands,  spoke  very  earnestly— 
"believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  you  will  find  few  among  those 
who  see  you  every  day,  that  love  you  as  warmly  as  the  friends 
who  have  loved  you  from  your  birth,  and  who  now  only  stand 
away  from  you  because  they  will  not  be  in  the  way  of  what  the 
world  considers  higher  fortunes  for  you  if  you  desire  them.  To 
leave  you  free  to  choose  for  yourself,  is  the  strongest  proof  of 
love  we  could  give  you,  and  I  repeat,  when  you  have  tried  all 
that  this  new  life  has  to  give  you — tried  it  for  six  months — if 
your  heart  still  turns  with  its  old  love  to  those  early  friends,  you 
will  give  them  joy  indeed." 

Mr.  Grahame  paused,  but  neither  Mr.  Trevanion  nor  Lilian 
attempted  to  reply  to  him  for  some  minutes — at  length  she  raised 
her  eyes,  and  said, 

"  You  did  not  think  of  this  when  I  left  you — what  has  changed 
your  mind — I  will  not  say  your  heart — towards  me  ?" 


198  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

"  You  are  right  not  to  say  our  hearts,  Lilian ;  but,  indeed, 
even  my  mind  has  not  been  changed — I  thought  then  as  I  think 
now — but  I  could  not  persuade  others  of  our  family  to  think  with 
me.  Now,  however,  they  all  feel  that  they  cannot  keep  up  their 
old  friendly  intercourse  with  you  without  mortification  to  them 
selves,  and  pain  to  you.  And,  as  I  said  before,  we  were  none  of 
us  willing  to  withdraw  from  that  intercourse  without  giving  you 
our  reasons  for  it,  lest  you  should  think  we  had  grown  indifferent 
to  you." 

Mr.  Grahame  soon  departed,  leaving  Lilian  saddened  and  Mr. 
Trevanion  perplexed  by  his  visit.  "Singular  old  man!"  this 
gentleman  exclaimed  to  himself  more  than  once,  in  reflecting  on 
all  that  Mr.  Grahame  had  said ;  so  difficult  is  it  for  those  whose 
minds  have  been  forced  into  the  straight  forms  of  conventional 
ism  to  comprehend  the  dictates  of  untrammelled  common  sense, 
on  points  which  that  conventionalism  undertakes  to  control.  One 
thing  at  least  Mr.  Trevanion  did  comprehend — that  on  the  suc 
ceeding  six  months,  depended  Lilian's  choice  of  her  position  and 
associates  for  life. 

"So  far  Mr.  Grahame  is  right,  Lilian,"  he  said  to  her;  "you 
cannot  have  a  place  at  once  in  two  such  different  spheres  as  his 
and  ours.  I  always  knew  that  to  be  impossible." 

"  You  called  my  father  friend,"  said  Lilian  with  unusual  bold 
ness. 

"Your  father  was  a  gentleman  by  birth  and  breeding." 

"  And  he  has  told  me,"  persisted  Lilian,  "  that  he  has  never 
known  more  true  refinement  and  even  nobility  of  mind  than  in 
Mr.  Grahame." 

u  I  agree  with  him — of  mind,  mark — but  there  is  a  want  of 
conventional  refinement  which  would  make  itself  felt  in  society." 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  199 

"  There  is  no  want  even  of  this  in  his  son,"  said  Lilian  with 
a  trembling  voice,  and  turning  away  to  hide  the  blush  that 
burned  upon  her  cheek. 

"  Probably  not,  for  Michael  Grahame  has  been  for  years  at 
the  best  boarding  schools,  with  the  sons  of  our  first  families — 
but  we  cannot  separate  him  from  his  father,  and  from  the  asso 
ciates  which  his  trade  has  given  him." 

Neither  Mr.  Trevanion  nor  Lilian  ever  spoke  on  this  subject 
again  ;  but  the  first  resolved  that  no  effort  should  be  lost  on  his 
part  to  restore  one  so  beautiful  and  so  accomplished  as  his  young 
ward  to  what  he  considered  her  true  place  in  society,  and  the  last 
was  as  firmly  determined  that  nothing  should  make  her  forgetful 
of  the  friends  of  her  childhood.  In  furtherance  of  this  resolve, 
Mr.  Trevanion,  instead  of  retiring  to  his  country-seat  with  his 
family  on  the  approach  of  summer,  sent  his  younger  children 
there  under  the  care  of  their  faithful  and  intelligent  nurse,  and 
with  Mrs.  and  Miss  Trevanion,  and  Lilian,  set  out  for  Sarato 
ga,  at  that  season  the  great  focus  of  fashion.  Mrs.  Trevanion, 
entering  fully  into  his  designs,  had  attended  to  Lilian's  equip 
ments  for  this  important  campaign,  with  no  less  care  than  to  An 
na's,  and  the  result  equalled  their  fondest  expectations.  Lilian 
was  the  beauty,  tlve,  Jieiress,  the  belle  of  the  season.  Report  exag 
gerated  her  fortune,  appended  all  sorts  of  romantic  incidents  to 
her  history  and  her  connection  with  the  Trevanions,  and  thus  in 
creased  the  interest  which  her  own  beauty  and  modest  elegance 
was  calculated  to  awaken.  Admirers  crowded  around  her,  and 
to  render  her  triumph  complete,  one  who  had  hitherto  found  no 
charms  in  America  worthy  his  homage,  bowed  at  her  shrine. 
This  was  Mr.  Derwent,  an  Englishman  of  high  birth  and  large 


200  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

fortune,  whose  elegant  exterior,  and  the  perfect  savoirfaire  which 
marked  his  manners,  made  him  at  Saratoga, 

"  The  observed  of  all  observers, 
The  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mould  of  form." 

Mr.  Trevanion  looked  on  with  scarce  concealed  delight. 

"  Why,  father !  do  you  wish  to  see  Lilian  leave  us  for  Eng 
land  ?"  cried  Anna  Trevanion,  to  whom  he  had  expressed  his 
satisfaction. 

"  Certainly,  my  daughter,  if  only  in  that  way  I  can  see  her 
take  that  position  which  is  hers  by  inheritance,  and  from  which 
only  her  father's  misfortunes  have  estranged  her." 

"  But  Mr.  Trevanion's  hopes  of  so  desirable  a  termination  of 
his  cares  for  Lilian  faded,  as  he  saw  the  reserve  with  which  she 
met  the  attentions  of  her  admirers — not  excepting  even  the  ad 
mired  Mr.  Derwent 

"  Among  the  beauties  at  this  place,  Miss  L D ,  the 

ward  of  Mr.  T ,  stands  unrivalled.  She  is  an  heiress  as 

well  as  a  beauty,  but  the  report  is  that  both  the  fortune  and  the 
beauty  are  to  be  borne  to  another  land,  in  the  possession  of  the 

Honorable  Mr.  D ,  whose  personal  qualities,  united  to  his 

station  and  fortune,  render  him,  in  the  opinion  of  the  ladies  at 
least,  irresistible." 

Such  was  the  paragraph  in  a  New -York  daily  paper,  which 
Mr.  Trevanion  handed  to  Lilian  with  a  smile  one  morning.  She 
read  it  in  silence,  and  laid  it  down  without  a  comment,  except 
that  which  was  furnished  by  the  proud  erection  of  her  figure, 
and  the  almost  scornful  curl  of  her  lip. 

When  next  she  met  Mr.  Derwent,  Mr.  Trevanion's  eye  was 
on  her,  for  he  thought,  "She  cannot  preserve  her  perfect  in- 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  201 

difference  of  manner  with  the  consciousness  that  their  names 
have  been  thus  associated."  He  was  mistaken.  The  color  on 
Lilian's  cheek  deepened  not  at  Mr.  Derwent's  approach,  nor  did 
her  hand  tremble  as  she  laid  it  upon  the  arm  he  offered  in  attend 
ing  her  to  dinner.  "Her  heart  must  be  already  occupied,"  said 
Mr.  Trevanion  to  himself,  and  perhaps  he  was  right  in  believing 
that  nothing  but  a  deep  and  true  affection — one  which  was 
founded  on  no  adventitious  circumstances,  but  on  the  immovable 
basis  of  esteem,  could  have  enabled  her  to  resist  the  blandish 
ments  which  surrounded  her  in  her  present  position.  But  she  did 
resist  them,  and  still,  from  the  luxurious  elegancies,  the  gay  en 
tertainments  and  the  flatteries  of  fashionable  life,  her  heart  turned 
with  undiminished  tenderness  to  the  tranquil  shades  of  Mossgiel, 
and  still  paid  there  its  willing  homage  to  the  loftiest  intellect 
and  the  noblest  heart,  in  her  estimation,  with  which  earth  was 
blessed. 

September,  with  its  cool,  invigorating  freshness,  had  come, 
when  Mr.  Trevanion 's  family  returned  to  the  city.  To  Lilian's 
great,  though  unspoken  disappointment,  the  children  met  them 
there,  and  no  thought  seemed  to  be  entertained  of  a  visit  to  the 
country.  Carefully  she  had  kept  the  date  of  Mr.  Grahame's  con 
versation  in  which  he  had  demanded  that  she  should  make  a  six 
months'  trial  of  life,  freed  from  the  associations  which  her  early 
poverty  had  fastened  on  her.  In  a  few  weeks  after  her  return  to 
New-York,  the  six  months  were  completed.  On  the  day  pre 
ceding  its  exact  completion,  Lilian  expressed  to  Mr.  Trevanion 
her  wish  to  visit  Mossgiel.  "It  is  now  six  months,"  she  said, 
with  a  blush  and  a  smile,  "  since  I  saw  Mr.  Grahame." 

Whatever  might  have  been  Mr.  Trevanion's  wishes  for  his 
ward,  he  had  neither  the  right  nor  the  will  to  control  her  actions, 


202  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

and  he  not  only  consented  to  her  going,  but  went  down  with 
her  himself  to  Trevanion.  Hall,  where  they  arrived  late  in  the 
evening. 

Lilian  knew  that  the  inhabitants  of  Mossgiel  kept  early  hours, 
and  the  gay  pink  and  blue  and  white  convolvoluses,  which  arched 
the  rude  gate  leading  from  the  more  public  road  into  the  rural 
lane  by  which  their  house  was  approached,  had  just  unfolded 
their  petals,  when  she  rode  through  it  on  the  morning  succeed 
ing  her  arrival  at  Trevanion  Hall.  She  had  declined  the  attend 
ance  of  a  servant,  and  set  off  at  a  brisk  canter,  but  soon  reined  in 
her  horse  and  proceeded  at  a  slower  pace.  Hope  and  fear  were 
busy  at  her  heart.  Six  months !  What  changes  might  not  have 
taken  place  in  that  time !  Again  Lilian  touched  her  horse  with 
her  light  riding-whip,  and  rode  briskly  on  till  she  reached  the 
gate  of  which  we  have  spoken.  Here  she  alighted  to  open  the 
gate.  As  she  entered  the  lane  she  saw  not  far  in  advance  of  her 
a  boy  who  had  been  hired  to  assist  Mr.  Grahame  in  the  garden. 
She  called  to  him,  and  giving  him  her  bridle  to  lead  her  horse  to 
the  stable,  walked  on  herself  towards  the  house,  which  was  little 
more  than  a  hundred  yards  distant.  After  walking  a  few  steps, 
she  turned  to  ask,  "Are  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grahame  well?" 

Another  question  trembled  on  her  lips — but  she  could  not 
speak  it.  "  If  he  love  me,  he  will  be  here,"  she  whispered  to  her 
self,  and  again  passed  on.  The  road  wound  around  the  house, 
and  led  to  the  entrance  on  the  river  front.  There  was  a  side 
gate  leading  to  the  garden,  and  there,  at  that  hour,  Lilian  knew 
she  would  most  probably  meet  the  elder  Mr.  Grahame,  while  his 
wife  was  almost  certain  to  be  found  in  the  dairy,  to  which  the 
same  gate  would  give  her  access ;  but  the  gate  was  passed  with 
a  light,  quick  step,  and  Lilian  entered  the  house  at  the  front. 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  203 

With  a  fluttering  heart,  but  a  steady  purpose,  she  passed  on, 
without  meeting  any  one,  or  hearing  a  sound,  to  the  usual 
morning  room.  The  door  was  open;  she  entered,  and  her 
heart  throbbed  exultingly,  for  lie  was  there.  Michael  Gra- 
hame  sat  at  a  table  writing.  His  back  was  towards  the  door, 
and  her  light  step  had  given  no  notice  of  her  presence.  Agi 
tated  by  a  thousand  commingled  emotions,  wishing,  yet  dread 
ing  to  meet  his  eye,  she  stood  gazing  on  his  face  as  it  was  re 
flected  in  an  opposite  mirror.  It  seemed  to  her  paler  and  graver 
than  of  yore.  Manhood  had  stamped  its  lines  more  deeply  on 
the  brow  since  last  they  parted.  But  some  movement,  a  sigh, 
perhaps,  from  her,  has  startled  him.  He  raises  his  head,  and  in 
the  mirror  their  eyes  meet.  In  that  glance  her  whole  soul  has 
been  revealed,  and  with  one  glad  cry  of  "Lilian!  my  Lilian!" 
he  turns,  and  she  is  folded  in  his  arms. 

There  was  no  more  doubt,  no  more  fear,  on  her  part — no 
concealment  on  his.  She  had  chosen  freely  and  nobly,  and  she 
was  rewarded  by  love  as  deep,  as  devoted,  and  as  unselfish  as 
ever  woman  inspired,  or  man  felt. 

The  marriage  of  Lilian,  which  took  place  in  three  months 
after  her  return  to  Mossgiel,  could  not  but  excite  some  inter 
est  in  the  world  in  which  she  had  so  lately  occupied  a  con 
spicuous  place.  "When,  however,  to  the  great  question — "  Who 
is  this  Mr.  Grahame?"  the  answer,  "Nothing  but  a  mechanic," 
was  received — the  interest  soon  faded  away,  and  in  the  winter 
Lilian  found  herself  in  New- York,  with  scarcely  an  acquaintance, 
except  the  Trevanions,  and  she  could  easily  perceive  that  some 
thing  of  pity  was  mingled  with  their  former  kindness.  Yet  never 
had  Lilian  been  less  an  object  of  pity.  Every  day  increased  not 
only  her  affection  to  her  husband,  but  her  pride  in  him,  by  reveal- 


204  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

ing  to  her  more  of  his  high  powers  and  noble  qualities.  Those 
powers  had  received  a  new  spring  from  his  desire  to  prove  him 
self  worthy  of  his  cherished  wife.  He  had  long  been  occupied 
with  a  problem  whose  solution,  he  believed,  would  enable  him 
to  increase  greatly  both  the  speed  and  safety  of  steam  naviga 
tion.  In  the  early  part  of  the  winter  succeeding  his  marriage, 
with  a  glad  spirit  with  which  Lilian  fully  sympathized,  he  cried 
"Eureka."  Before  the  winter  concluded  he  had  been  to  Wash 
ington,  and  explaining  to  the  officers  of  our  own  Government 
the  importance  of  his  invention,  sought  permission  to  test  it  on  a 
government  vessel.  After  many  delays,  with  that  short-sighted 
policy  which  cannot  look  beyond  the  present  expense  to  the 
overpaying  results,  the  proposition  was  declined.  During  his 
stay  in  Washington,  his  object  had  become  noised  abroad,  and 
the  Eussian  Minister  had  opened  a  correspondence  with  him  and 
with  his  own  court  on  the  subject.  The  result  of  this  correspond 
ence  was,  that  in  the  following  spring  Michael  Grahame  sailed  for 
Eussia,  to  test  his  invention  first  in  the  service  of  its  emperor. 
He  was  accompanied  by  Lilian.  Their  departure  and  its  object 
was  talked  of  for  awhile,  but  soon  ceased  to  be  remembered, 
except  by  men  of  science,  and  those  immediately  interested  in 
the  result  of  his  experiment. 

In  the  mean  time  Anna  Trevanion  married.  Her  husband, 
Mr.  Walker,  was  a  man  of  large  property,  and  of  social  position 
equal  to  her  own.  They  spent  the  first  two  years  of  their  mar 
ried  life  abroad.  It  was  in  the  second  of  these  two  years,  and 
when  Lilian  had  been  four  years  in  St.  Petersburg,  that  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Walker  entered  that  city.  One  of  their  first  inquiries  of 
the  American  Minister  was,  "  What  Americans  are  here  ?"  and 
at  the  head  of  the  list  he  presented,  stood  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grahame. 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  205 

"And  who  are  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grahame?"  asked  Mr.  Walker. 
"You  say  they  are  from  New- York,  and  I  remember  no  such 
names  of  any  consequence  in  society  there." 

"I  do  not  know  what  their  consequence  was  there,  but  I 
assure  you  it  is  as  great  here  as  the  partiality  of  the  Emperor,  the 
favor  of  the  Imperial  family,  and  their  association  with  the  high 
est  rank  can  make  it." 

"But  how  did  people  unknown  at  home  work  themselves 
into  such  a  position  ?" 

"  They  did  not  work  themselves  into  it  at  all — they  took  it  at 
once,  by  the  only  right  which  Americans  have  to  any  position 
abroad  — the  right  of  their  own  fitness  for  it.  Mr.  Grahame,  be 
sides  his  high  attainments  in  science,  and  his  skill  in  mechanics, 
which  first  introduced  him  to  the  Emperor,  is  a  man  of  fine  ap 
pearance,  of  very  extensive  information,  and  very  agreeable  man 
ners,  and  Mrs.  Grahame  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  culti 
vated  women  I  know.  I  repeat,  you  cannot  enter  society  here 
under  better  auspices  than  theirs." 

And  thus  the  long-severed  friends  met  in  reversed  positions, 
and  if  something  of  triumph  did  flash  from  Lilian's  eyes,  as  she 
saw  her  husband,  day  after  day,  procuring  from  the  Emperor's 
favor,  privileges  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Walker,  not  often  enjoyed  by 
strangers,  her  triumph  was  for  him,  and  may  be  excused. 

After  eight  years  spent  in  Eussia,  during  which  he  had  ac 
quired  fortune,  as  well  as  fame,  Michael  Grahame  returned  to 
America,  with  his  wife  and  three  lovely  children,  and  retired  to 
a  beautiful  country  seat  within  a  mile  of  Mossgiel,  purchased  and 
furnished  for  him  during  his  absence.  His  father  still  cultivates 
his  garden,  though  he  has  ceased  to  sell  its  produce,  and  through 
those  flowery  walks  Lilian  and  her  husband  still  delight  to  wan- 


206  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

der,  recalling  the  happy  memories  with,  which  they  are  linked, 
with  grateful  and  adoring  hearts. 

"I  shall  never  object  again  to  any  one  in  whom  I  am  inter 
ested,  marrying  the  man  of  their  choice,  because  he  is  only  a 
mechanic,"  said  Mrs.  Trevanion  to  her  husband,  as  they  were  re 
turning  one  day  from  a  visit  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grahame. 

"  There,  my  dear,  in  those  words,  only  a  mechanic,  lies  our 
mistake,  the  world's  mistake,  in  such  matters.  No  man  is  only 
what  his  trade,  his  profession,  or  his  position  in  life  make  him. 
Every  man  is  something  besides  this,  something  by  force  of  his 
own  inherent  personal  qualities.  By  these  the  true  man  is  formed, 
and  by  these  he  should  be  judged." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

AGAIN  we  were  all  assembled  in  the  parlor  in  which  so  many  of 
our  cheerful  evenings  had  been  spent,  but  a  shadow  seemed  to 
have  fallen  on  our  little  circle.  New-Year  was  now  very  near, 
and  immediately  after  New- Year  we  must  separate.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Dudley,  with  their  children,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Seagrove, 
with  theirs,  and  Mr.  Arlington  and  I,  would  all  leave  within  a 
day  or  two  of  each  other,  and  a  year,  with  all  its  chances  and 
changes,  would  probably  intervene  before  we  should  meet  again. 
The  very  thought,  as  I  have  said,  threw  a  shadow  upon  us,  but 
Col.  Donaldson,  who  is  a  most  inveterate  foe  to  sadness,  would 
not  suffer  us  to  yield  unresistingly  to  its  influence.  If  our  time 
was  short,  the  more  necessity  for  crowding  enjoyment  into  every 
moment  of  it,  he  said  ;  we  could  spare  none  of  it  for  lamenta 
tions. 

"  Now,  Aunt  Nancy,"  he  continued,  "if  I  am  not  mistaken, 
you  can  match  Mr.  Arlington's  story  with  one  quite  as  romantic, 
of  an  extraordinary  marriage  in  high  life.  Do  you  remember 
Lady  Houstoun  and  her  son  Edward  Houstoun — 

"Oh,  yes!"  I  cried,  interrupting  him,  "and  the  beautiful 
Lucy  Watson  too." 

"  Then  I  am  sure  you  must  have  their  story  somewhere  in 
your  bundle  of  romances." 


208  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

"  I  believe  I  have,"  I  replied,  as  opening  my  desk  I  drew  out 
package  after  package,  the  amusement  of  many  an  hour,  which 
but  for  such  a  resource  might  have  been  sad  in  its  loneliness. 
Some  were  looking  fresh  and  new,  and  others  yellow  from  age. 
Among  the  last  was  that  for  which  I  was  searching,  and  which, 
though  I  have  no  engraving  to  illustrate  it,  Annie  insists  that  I 
should  give  to  the  reader,  here,  under  the  title  of 


A  PKOUD  and  stately  dame  was  Lady  Houstoun,  as  she  continued 
to  be  called  after  the  independence  of  America  had  rendered  such 
titles  valueless  in  our  land.  Sir  Edward  Houstoun  was  an  En 
glish  baronet,  whose  estates  had  once  been  a  fit  support  to  his  an 
cient  title,  but  whose  family  had  suffered  deeply,  both  in  purse 
and  person,  by  their  loyalty  to  Charles  the  First,  and  yet  more 
by  their  obstinate  adherence  to  his  bigot  son,  James  II.  By  a 
marriage  with  Louisa  Vivian,  an  American  heiress  possessed  of 
broad  lands  and  a  large  amount  of  ready  money,  Sir  Edward  ac 
quired  the  power  of  supporting  his  rank  with  all  the  splendor 
that  belonged  to  his  family  in  the  olden  time ;  but  circumstances 
connected  with  the  poverty  of  his  early  years  had  given  the 
young  baronet  a  disgust  to  his  own  circle,  which  was  not  allevi 
ated  by  the  rapid  changes  effected  by  his  newly  acquired  wealth, 
and  he  preferred  returning  to  America  with  his  young  bride,  and 
adopting  her  country  as  his  own.  Here  wealth  sufficient  for  their 
most  extravagant  desires  was  theirs — houses  in  New- York,  and 
fertile  acres  stretching  far  away  from  the  city,  now  sweeping  for 
many  a  rood  the  banks  of  the  fair  Hudson,  and  now  reaching 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  209 

back  into  the  rich  lands  that  lie  east  of  that  river.  When  the 
separation  of  this  country  from  England  came,  the  representative 
of  her  most  loyal  family,  whose  motto  was  "  Dieu  et  mon  Roi, " 
was  found  in  the  ranks  of  republican  America.  He  could  not 
recognize  a  divine  right  in  the  House  of  Hanover  to  the  throne 
of  the  Stuarts,  or  justify  by  any  human  reason  the  blind  subser 
vience  of  Americans  to  the  ruinous  enactments  of  an  English 
parliament,  controlled  by  a  rash  and  headstrong  minister  and  an 
imbecile  king.  Ten  years  after  the  declaration  of  peace  Sir  Ed 
ward  died,  leaving  one  son  who  had  just  entered  his  twentieth 
year. 

Young  as  Edward  Houstoun  was,  he  had  a  man's  decision  of 
character,  and  when  the  question  of  his  assuming  his  father's 
title,  and  claiming  the  estates  attached  to  it  in  England,  was  sub 
mitted  to  him,  he  replied  that  "his  proudest  title  was  that  of  an 
American  citizen,  and  he  would  not  forfeit  that  title  to  become  a 
royal  duke."  He  could  only  therefore  inherit  his  father's  per 
sonal  property,  consisting  principally  of  plate,  jewels  and  paint 
ings.  The  property  thus  received  was  all  which  the  young  Ed 
ward  Houstoun  could  call  his  own.  All  else  was  his  mother's, 
and  though  it  would  doubtless  be  his  at  her  death,  the  Lady 
Houstoun  was  not  one  to  relinquish  the  reins  of  government  be 
fore  that  inevitable  hour  should  wrest  them  from  her  hand.  She 
made  her  son  a  very  handsome  allowance,  however,  and,  with  a 
higher  degree  of  generosity  than  any  pecuniary  grant  could 
evince,  she  never  attempted  to  control  his  actions,  suffering  him 
to  enjoy  his  sports  in  the  country  and  amusements  in  the  city 
without  constraint.  The  Lady  Houstoun  was  a  wise  woman,  as 
well  as  an  affectionate  mother.  She  saw  well  that  her  son's  in 
dependent  and  proud  nature  might  be  attracted  by  kindness  to 
14 


210  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

move  whither  she  would,  while  the  very  appearance  of  constraint 
would  drive  him  in  an  opposite  direction.  On  one  subject  he 
greatly  tried  her  forbearance — the  unbecoming  levity,  as  she  es 
teemed  it,  with  which  he  regarded  the  big-wigged  gentlemen  and 
hooped  and  farthingaled  ladies  whose  portraits  ornamented  their 
picture  gallery.  For  only  one  of  these  did  Edward  profess  the 
slightest  consideration.  This  was  that  of  the  simple  soldier 
whose  gallantry  under  William  the  Conqueror  had  laid  the  foun 
dation  of  his  family  fortunes  and  honors. 

"Dear  mother,"  said  he  one  day,  "what  proof  have  we  that 
those  other  fine  gentlemen  and  ladies  deserved  the  wealth  and 
station  which,  through  his  noble  qualities,  they  obtained  ?" 

"  Sir  James  Houstoun,  my  son,  who  devoted  life  and  for 
tune  to  his  king — ' ' 

"Pardon  me,  noble  Sir  James,"  interrupted  Edward,  bowing 
low  and  with  mock  gravity  to  the  portrait,  "  I  will  place  you  and 
your  stern-looking  son  there  at  your  side  next  in  my  veneration 
to  our  first  ancestor.  Yet  you  showed  that,  like  me,  you  had 
little  value  for  wealth  and  station." 

"Edward!"  ejaculated  Lady  Houstoun,  in  an  accent  of  dis 
pleasure,  "that  we  are  willing  to  sacrifice  a  possession  at  the  call 
of  duty  does  not  prove  us  insensible  of  its  value." 

"  Nay,  mother  mine,  speak  not  so  gravely,  but  acknowledge 
that  you  would  be  prouder  of  your  boy  if  you  saw  him  by  his 
own  energies  winning  his  way  to  distinction  from  earth's  lowliest 
station,  than  you  can  be  of  him  now — idler  as  he  is." 

"  There  is  no  less  merit,  Edward,  in  using  aright  the  gifts 
which  we  inherit,  than  in  acquiring  them.  There  is  as  much  en 
ergy,  I  can  assure  you,  demanded  in  the  proper  management  of 
large  estates,  and  the  right  direction  of  the  influence  derived 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  211 

from  station — aye,  often  more  energy,  the  exercise  of  higher 
powers,  than  those  by  which  a  fortunate  soldier,  in  time  of  war, 
may  often  spring  in  a  day  from  nameless  poverty  to  wealth  and 
rank." 

The  Lady  Houstoun's  still  fine  figure  was  elevated  to  its  ut 
most  height  as  she  spoke,  and  her  dark  eye  flashed  out  from  be 
neath  the  shadow  of  the  deep  borders  of  her  widow's  cap.  A 
stranger  would  have  gazed  on  her  with  admiration,  but  her  son 
turned  away  with  a  slight  shrug  of  the  shoulders  and  a  curling 
lip,  as  he  said  to  himself,  "  My  mother  may  feel  all  this,  for  she 
manages  the  estates,  and  she  bestows  the  influence — while  I  amuse 
myself.  Mother,"  he  added  aloud,  "  they  say  there  is  fine  sport 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Glen,  and  I  should  like  to  see  the 
place.  I  will  take  a  party  there  next  week,  if  you  will  write  to 
your  farmer  to  prepare  the  house  for  us." 

"I  will,  Edward,  certainly,  if  you  desire  it,  but  it  has  been  so 
long  since  any  of  us  were  there,  that  I  fear  you  will  find  the 
house  very  uncomfortable." 

"  So  much  the  better,  if  it  give  us  a  little  variety  in  our 
smooth  lives.  I  dare  say  we  shall  all  like  it  very  much.  I  shall, 
at  least,  and  if  the  rest  do  not,  they  can  come  away." 

The  Glen  was  a  wild  rural  spot  among  the  Highlands,  where 
Sir  Edward  had  delighted  occasionally  to  spend  a  few  weeks  with 
his  wife  and  child  and  one  or  two  chosen  friends,  in  the  enjoy 
ment  of  country  sports.  For  several  years  before  his  death  Ed 
ward  had  been  too  much  engaged  in  his  collegiate  studies  to 
share  these  visits.  During  the  three  years  which  had  passed  since 
that  event,  neither  Lady  Houstoun  nor  her  son  had  visited  the 
Glen,  and  it  was  not  without  emotion  that  she  heard  him  name 
his  intention  of  taking  a  party  there ;  but  she  offered  no  oppo- 


212  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

sition  to  the  plan,  and  in  a  little  more  than  a  week  he  was  estab 
lished  in  the  comfortable  dwelling-house  there,  with  Walter  Os- 
good,  Philip  Yan  Schaick,  and  Peter  Schuyler,  companions  who 
were  easily  persuaded  to  leave  the  somewhat  formal  circles  of  the 
city  for  a  few  days  of  adventure  in  the  country.  They  had  arrived 
late  in  the  night,  and,  wearied  by  fifteen  hours'  confinement  on 
board  a  small  sloop,  the  visitors  slept  late  the  next  morning, 
while  Edward  Houstoun,  haunted  by  tender  memories,  was  early 
awake  and  abroad.  Standing  on  the  porch,  he  looked  forth 
through  the  gray  light  of  the  early  dawn  on  hill  and  dale  and 
river,  endeavoring  to  recall  the  feelings  with  which  he  had  gazed 
on  them  seven  years  before.  Then  he  was  a  boy  of  scarce  six 
teen,  eager  only  for  the  holiday  sport  or  the  distinction  of  the 
school-room — now,  he  stood  there — a  boy  still,  his  heart  indig 
nantly  pronounced,  though  he  had  numbered  nearly  twenty-three 
years.  Edward  Houstoun  was  beginning  to  wake  to  somewhat  of 
noble  scorn  in  viewing  his  own  position — beginning  to  feel  that 
to  amuse  himself  was  an  object  hardly  worthy  a  man's  life. 
Turning  forcibly  from  such  thoughts,  he  sprang  down  the  steps, 
and  pursued  a  path  leading  by  the  orchard  and  through  a  flowery 
lane,  toward  the  dwelling  of  the  farmer  to  whom  the  management 
of  the  Glen  had  been  intrusted,  first  by  Sir  Edward  and  after 
wards  by  Lady  Houstoun.  The  sun  was  just  touching  with  a 
sapphire  tint  the  few  clouds  that  specked  the  eastern  sky ;  the 
branches  of  the  wild  rose  and  mountain  laurel  which  skirted  the 
lane  on  the  right  were  heavy  with  the  dews  of  night,  and  the 
birds  seemed  caroling  their  earliest  song  in  the  orchard  and 
clover-field  on  the  left,  yet  the  farmer's  horses  were  already  har 
nessed  to  the  wagon,  and  through  the  open  door  of  the  house 
Edward  Houstoun  as  he  approached  caught  a  glimpse  of  Farmer 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  213 

Pye  himself  and  his  men  seated  at  breakfast.  As  he  was  not 
perceived  by  them,  he  passed  on,  without  interrupting  them,  to 
the  dairy,  where  the  good  dame  was  busy  with  her  white  pails 
and  bright  pans.  A  calico  bonnet  with  a  very  deep  front  con 
cealed  his  approach  from  Mrs.  Pye  until  he  stood  beside  her ;  but 
there  was  one  within  the  dairy  who  saw  him,  and  whose  coquet 
tish  movement  in  snatching  from  her  glossy  brown  ringlets  a 
bonnet  of  the  same  unbecoming  shape  with  that  of  Mrs.  Pye, 
did  not  escape  his  observation. 

"  Well,  now — did  I  ever  see  the  like !  Why,  Mr.  Edward, 
you've  grown  clean  out  of  a  body's  memory — but  after  all  nobody 
couldn't  help  knowing  you  that  ever  seen  your  papa,  good  gen 
tleman — how  much  you  are  like  him!" 

Thus  ran  on  Dame  Pye,  while  Edward,  except  when  com 
pelled  by  a  question  to  attend  to  her,  was  wondering  who  the 
fair  girl  could  be,  who  was  separated  from  her  companion  not 
less  by  the  tasteful  arrangement  of  her  dress — simple  and  even 
coarse  as  it  was  in  its  material — and  by  a  certain  grace  of  move 
ment,  than  by  her  delicate  beauty.  Her  form  was  slender  in 
proportion  to  its  height,  yet  gave  in  its  graceful  outline  promise 
of  a  development  "  rich  in  all  woman's  loveliness,"  and  her  face, 
with  its  dark  starry  eyes,  its  clear,  transparent  skin,  and  rich, 
waving  curls  of  glossy  brown,  recalled  so  vividly  to  Edward 
Houstoun's  memory  his  favorite  description  of  beauty,  that  he 
repeated  almost  audibly : — 

"One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 

Had  half  impaired  the  nameless  grace 
That  waves  in  every  glossy  tress, 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face, 


214  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet   express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place." 

His  admiration,  if  not  audible,  was  sufficiently  evident  to  its 
object — at  least  so  we  interpret  her  tremulous  and  uncertain 
movements,  the  eloquent  blood  which  glowed  in  her  cheeks,  and 
the  mistakes  which  at  length  aroused  Mrs.  Pye's  attention. 

"  Why,  Lucy !  what  under  the  sun  and  earth 's  the  matter 
with  you,  child  ?  Dear — dear — to  go  putting  the  cream  into  the 
new  milk,  instead  of  emptying  it  into  the  churn !  There — there — 
child — better  go  in  now — I'll  finish — and  just  tell  Mr.  Pye  that 
Mr.  Edward  is  here,"  said  Mrs.  Pye,  fearful  of  some  new  accident. 

The  discarded  bonnet  was  put  on  with  a  heightened  color,  and 
the  young  girl  moved  rapidly  yet  gracefully  toward  the  house. 

"  I  did  not  remember  you  had  a  daughter,  Mrs.  Pye,"  said 
Edward  Houston,  as  she  disappeared. 

"  And  I  haven't  a  daughter — only  the  two  boys,  Sammy  and 
Isaac — good  big  boys  they  are  now,  and  help  their  father  quite 
some — but  this  girl's  none  of  mine,  though  I'm  sure  I  love  her 
'most  as  well — she's  so  pretty  and  nice  and  has  such  handy  ways, 
though  what  could  have  tempted  her  to  put  the  cream  in  the 
new  milk  just  now,  I'm  sure  I  can't  tell." 

"But  who  is  she,  Mrs.  Pye?" 

"  Who  is  she  !  Why,  sure,  and  did  you  never  hear  of  Lucy 
Watson?  Oh !  here's  Mr.  Pye." 

Edward  Houstoun  was  too  much  interested  in  learning  some 
thing  more  of  Lucy  Watson,  not  to  find  a  sufficient  reason  for 
lingering  behind  the  farmer,  who  was  impatient  to  be  in  his  hay- 
field.  Mrs.  Pye  was  communicative,  and  he  soon  learned  all  she 
knew — that  Lucy  was  the  daughter  of  a  soldier  belonging  to  a 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  215 

company  commanded  by  Sir  Edward  Houstoun  during  the  war 
— that  this  soldier  had  received  his  death  wound  in  defending  his 
commander  from  a  sword-cut,  and  that  Sir  Edward  had  always 
considered  his  widow  and  only  child  as  his  especial  charge.  The 
widow  had  soon  followed  her  husband  to  the  grave,  and  the  child 
had  been  placed  by  Sir  Edward  with  the  wife  of  a  country  cler 
gyman.  To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Merton,  Lucy  had  been  as  an  own  and 
only  daughter. 

"  The  good  old  people  made  quite  a  lady  of  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Pye.  "  She  can  read  and  write  equal  to  the  parson  himself,  and 
I've  hearn  folks  say  that  her  'broidery  and  music  playin'  was 
better  than  Mrs.  Merton's  own;,  but,  poor  thing!  Mrs.  Merton 
died,  and  still  the  parson  begged  Sir  Edward  to  let  her  stay  with 
him — she  was  all  that  was  left  now,  he  said — so  Sir  Edward  let 
her  stay.  Mr.  Merton  died  a  year  ago,  and  when  Mr.  Pye  wrote 
to  the  lady — that's  your  mother,  Mr.  Edward — about  her,  she 
said  she'd  better  come  here  and  stay  with  us,  and  she  would  pay 
her  board,  and  give  her  money  for  clothes,  and  five  thousand 
dollars  beside,  whenever  she  should  get  married.  I'm  sure  she's 
welcome  to  stay,  if  it  was  without  pay,  for  we  all  love  her,  but, 
somehow,  it  don't  seem  the  right  place  for  her — and,  as  to  marry 
ing,  I  don't  think  she'll  ever  marry  any  body  around  her,  for, 
kind-spoken  as  she  is,  they  wouldn't  any  of  them  dare  to  ask  her, 
though  they're  all  in  love  with  her  beautiful  face." 

In  a  week  Edward  Houstoun's  friends  had  grown  weary  of 
ruralizing — they  found  no  longer  any  music  in  the  crack  of  a 
fowling-piece,  or  any  enjoyment  in  the  dying  agonies  of  the 
feathered  tribes,  and,  having  resisted  all  their  persuasions  to 
return  with  them,  he  was  left  alone. 

"I  shall  report  you  as  love-sick,  or  brain-sick,  reclining  by 


216  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

purling  streams,  under  shady  groves,  to  read  Shakspeare,  or  Mil 
ton,  or  Spenser,  for  each  of  these  books  I  have  seen  you  at  differ 
ent  times  put  in  your  pocket,  and  wander  forth  with  a  most  senti 
mental  air — doubtless  to  make  love  to  some  Nymph  or  Dryad." 

"  Make  love !  Ah !  there,  I  take  it  you  have  winged  the 
right  bird,  Van  Schaick." 

"If  I  had  seen  a  decent  petticoat  since  we  took  leave  of 
Mynheer  Van  Winkle  and  his  daughter,  on  board  the  good  sloop 
St.  Nicholas,  I  should  think  so  too,  Osgood." 

"  At  any  rate,  it  would  be  wise  to  report  our  suspicions  to 
his  lady  mother." 

"Your  suspicions  of  what — lunacy  or  love?"  asked  Edward 
Houstoun. 

"A  distinction  without  a  difference — they  are  equivalent 
terms." 

Thus  jested  his  friends,  and  thus  jested  Edward  Houstoun 
with  them — well  assured  that  no  gleam  of  the  truth  had  shone 
on  them — that  they  never  supposed  his  visits  at  Farmer  Pye's 
possessed  any  greater  attraction  than  could  be  derived  from  the 
farmer's  details  of  improvements  made  at  the  Glen,  of  the  in 
creased  value  of  lands,  or  the  proceeds  of  the  last  year's  crop. 
They  had  never  seen  Lucy  Watson,  and  how  could  they  suspect 
that  while  the  farmer  smoked  his  pipe  at  the  door,  and  the  good 
dame  bustled  about  her  household  concerns,  he  sat  watching  with 
enamored  eyes  the  changes  of  a  countenance  fall  of  intelligence 
and  sensibility,  and  listening  with  charmed  ears  to  a  soft,  musical 
voice  recounting,  with  all  the  simple  eloquence  of  genuine  feeling, 
obligations  to  the  father  whose  memory  was  with  him  almost  an 
idolatry.  Still  less  could  they  divine  that  Shakspeare  and  Milton 
and  Spenser  were  indeed  often  read  beside  a  purling  stream,  and 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  £17 

within  the  dense  shadow  of  a  grove  of  oak  and  chestnut  trees 
— not  to  Nymph  or  Dryad,  but  to  a  "mortal  being  of  earth's 
mould," 

"  A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food, 
For  simple  pleasures,  harmless  wiles, 
For  love,  blame,  kisses,  tears  and  smiles." 

Here,  one  afternoon,  a  fortnight  after  the  departure  of  his 
friends,  sat  Edward  Houstoun  with  Lucy  at  his  side.  They  had 
lingered  till  the  sunlight,  which  had  fallen  here  and  there  in 
broken  and  changeful  gleams  through  overarching  boughs,  touch 
ing  with  gold  the  ripples  at  their  feet,  had  faded  into  that 

"  mellow  light 
Which  Heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies." 

Edward  Houstoun  held  a  book  in  his  hand,  but  it  had  long 
been  closed,  while  he  was  engaged  in  a  far  more  interesting 
study.  He  had  with  a  delicate  tact  won  his  companion  to  speak 
as  she  had  never  done  before  of  herself — not  of  the  few  events 
of  her  short  life,  for  these  were  already  known  to  him,  but  of  the 
influence  of  those  events  on  feeling  and  character.  Tenderness 
looked  forth  without  disguise  from  the  earnest  eyes  which  were 
fastened  on  her,  as  he  said,  "  You  say,  Lucy,  that  you  have  found 
friends  every  where,  have  met  only  kindness,  and  yet  you  weep 
— you  are  sad." 

"Do  not  think  me  ungrateful,"  she  replied.  "I  have  indeed 
found  friends  and  kindness — but  these  give  exercise  only  to  my 
gratitude — stronger,  tenderer  affections  I  have,  which  no  father, 
or  mother,  or  brother,  or  sister,  will  ever  call  forth." 


218  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

"  Nay,  Lucy,  were  you  not  adopted  by  my  father,  and  am  I 
not  your  brother  ?" 

A  glance  whose  brightness  melted  into  tears  was  her  only 
answer. 

"  Fie !  fie !  tears  again !  I  shall  have  to  scold  my  sister," 
said  Edward  Houstoun.  "  What  complaint  can  you  make  now 
that  I  have  found  you  a  brother?" 

Lucy  laughed,  but  soon  her  face  grew  grave,  and,  after  a 
thoughtful  pause,  she  said,  "  I  believe  those  cannot  be  quite  happy 
who  feel  that  they  have  nothing  to  do  in  the  world.  Better  be 
the  poorest  drudge,  with  powers  fitted  to  your  station,  than  to  be 
as  I  am,  an  idler — a  mere  looker-on  at  the  world." 

"  Why,  Lucy !  what  else  am  I  ?" 

"You!  You,  with  fortune  to  bless,  and  influence  to  guide 
hundreds !  What  are  you  ?  God's  representative  to  your  less 
fortunate  fellow-creatures — the  steward  of  his  bounty.  Oh !  be 
sure  that  you  use  your  gifts  faithfully." 

Lucy  spoke  solemnly,  and  it  was  with  no  light  accent  that 
Edward  Houstoun  replied — "  You  mistake,  Lucy — you  mistake 
— I  am  in  truth  no  less  an  idler  than  yourself — a  looker-on,  with 
no  part  in  the  game  of  life.  To  the  Lady  Houstoun  belong  both 
the  fortune  and  the  influence."  A  mocking  smile  had  risen  to 
his  lip,  but,  as  he  caught  her  look  of  surprise,  it  passed  away, 
leaving  a  gentle  gravity  in  its  place,  while  he  continued-—"  Do 
not  think  I  mean  to  complain  of  my  mother,  Lucy.  She  has 
been  ever  affectionate  and  indulgent  to  me.  She  leaves  me  no 
want  that  she  can  perceive.  My  purse  is  always  full,  and  my 
actions  unrestrained.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  happy." 

"  And  are  you  not  happy  ?" 

"No,  Lucy,  no!     There  has  long  been  a  vague  restlessness 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  219 

and  dissatisfaction  about  me — and,  now,  your  words  have  thrown 
light  on  its  cause.  I  am  weary  of  the  perpetual  holiday  which 
life  has  been  to  me  since  I  left  the  walls  of  a  college.  I  want  to 
be  doing — I  want  an  object — something  for  which  to  strive  and 
hope  and  fear — what  shall  it  be,  Lucy?" 

"  I  have  heard  Mr.  Merton  say  that  no  one  could  choose  for 
another  his  aims  in  life,  but  were  I  choosing  for  myself,  it  should 
be  something  that  would  connect  me  with  the  minds  of  others — 
something  by  which  I  could  do  service  to  their  spiritual  beings. 
Were  I  a  man,  I  should  like  to  write  books — such  books  as  would 
give  counsel  and  comfort  to  erring  and  sad  hearts — 

Edward  Houstoun  shook  his  head — "Even  had  I  an  au 
thor's  gifts,  Lucy,  that  would  not  do  for  me — I  must  have  action 
in  my  life — " 

"What  say  you  to  the  pulpit?" 

"  The  noblest  of  all  employments,  Lucy — but  it  is  a  heavenly 
employment,  and  needs  a  heavenly  spirit.  I  would  not  dare  to 
think  of  that.  Try  again — 

" The  law?  Ah!  now  I  see  I  have  chosen  rightly — you  will 
be  a  lawyer — a  great  lawyer,  like  Mr.  Patrick  Henry." 

"  You  have  spoken,  Lucy — and  I  will  do  my  best  to  fulfil 
your  prophecy.  I  may  not  be  a  Patrick  Henry — two  such  men 
belong  not  to  one  age — but  I  may  at  least  hew  out  for  myself  a 
place  among  men,  where  I  may  stand  with  a  man's  freedom  of 
thought  and  action.  The  very  decision  has  emancipated  me — 
has  emboldened  me  to  speak  what  a  moment  since  I  scarce  dared 
to  think — nay,  turn  not  from  me,  beloved — oh  how  passionately 
beloved !  Life  now  has  its  object  for  me,  Lucy — your  love — for 
that  I  will  strive — hope — whisper  me  that  I  need  not  fear — that 
when  I  have  a  right  to  claim  my  bride — " 


220  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

When  Edward  Houstoun  commenced  this  passionate  apostro 
phe,  he  had  clasped  Lucy's  hand,  and,  overcome  by  his  emotions 
and  her  own — forgetting  all  but  his  love — conscious  only  of  a 
bewildering  joy — she  had  suffered  it  to  rest  for  one  instant  in  his 
clasp.  It  was  but  for  one  instant — the  next,  struggling  from  him 
as  he  strove  to  retain  her,  she  started  to  her  feet,  and  stood 
leaning  against  the  trunk  of  the  tree  that  overshadowed  them, 
with  her  face  hidden  by  her  clasped  hands.  He  rose  and  drew 
near,  saying,  in  low,  tremulous  tones — "Lucy,  what  means  this?" 

"Mr.  Houstoun,"  she  exclaimed,  removing  her  hands  from 
her  face,  and  wringing  them  in  passionate  sorrow — "how  could 
you  speak  those  words  ?" 

"  Wherefore  should  I  not  speak  them — are  they  so  terrible  to 
you,  Lucy?" 

"  Can  they  be  otherwise,  since  they  must  separate  us  for  ever? 
Think  you  that  the  Lady  Houstoun  would  endure  that  the  crea 
ture  of  her  bounty  should  become  the  wife  of  her  son  ?" 

"  I  asked,  Lucy,  that  you  would  promise  to  be  mine  when  I 
had  won  a  right  to  act  independently  of  the  Lady  Houstoun's 
opinions." 

"Has  a  son  ever  a  right  to  act  independently  of  a  mother?" 

"Is  the  obedience  of  a  child  to  be  exacted  from  a  man?  Is 
his  happiness  ever  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  another's  prejudices? 
Does  there  never  come  a  period  when  he  may  be  permitted  to 
judge  for  himself?" 

Edward  Houstoun  spoke  with  indignant  emphasis. 

"  Look  not  so  sternly — speak  not  so  angrily,"  exclaimed  Lucy. 
"  I  cannot  answer  your  questions — but  my  obligations,  at  least, 
are  irreversible — they  belong  to  the  irrevocable  past,  and  while 
I  retain  their  memory  I  can  never — 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  £21 

"  Hush — hush,  Lucy !  you  will  drive  me  mad.  Is  my  happi 
ness  of  less  value  in  your  eyes  than  the  few  paltry  dollars  my 
mother  expended  for  you  ?" 

"  Shall  I,  serpent-like,  sting  the  hand  that  has  fed  me  ?  No ! 
no !  would  I  had  never  heard  those  words.  We  were  so  hap 
py — you  will  be  happy  again — but  I — leave  me,  I  pray  you, 
for  we  must  part  now  and  for  ever — oh !  leave  me." 

"  No,  Lucy,  we  will  never  part — I  will  never  leave  you." 

He  would  again  have  drawn  her  to  his  side,  but  at  his  touch, 
Lucy  roused  herself,  and  with  a  wild,  half-frenzied  effort,  break 
ing  from  him,  she  rushed  rapidly,  blindly  forward.  He  would 
have  followed  her,  but  stumbling  against  the  root  of  a  tree,  be 
fore  he  could  recover  himself  she  was  at  the  outskirts  of  the 
wood,  in  sight  of  the  farm-house,  and  though  he  might  overtake 
he  could  not  detain  her.  He  returned  home,  not  overwhelmed 
with  disappointment,  but  with  joy  throbbing  at  his  heart,  and 
hope  beaming  in  his  eyes.  Lucy  loved  him — of  that  he  felt  as 
sured — and  bucklered  by  that  assurance  he  could  stand  against 
the  world.  Life  was  before  him — a  life  not  of  sickly  pleasures 
and  ennui  breeding  indolence — but  a  life  of  contest  and  struggle 
and  labor,  perhaps  even  of  exhausting  labor,  yet  a  life  which 
should  awaken  and  discipline  his  powers ;  a  life  of  victory  and  of 
repose — sweet  because  won  with  effort — a  life  to  which  Lucy's 
love  should  give  its  crowning  joy.  Such  are  youth's  dreams.  In 
his  case  these  dreams  were  somewhat  rudely  dispelled  by  a  sum 
mons  from  his  mother's  physician.  Lady  Houstoun  was  ill — very 
ill — he  must  not  delay,  said  the  physician ;  and  he  did  not ;  yet  a 
hastily  pencilled  line  told  that  even  at  this  moment  Lucy  was  not 
forgotten — it  was  a  farewell  which  breathed  love  and  faith  and 
hope. 


222  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

On  Edward  Houstoun's  arrival  in  New- York,  he  found  his 
mother  already  recovering  from  the  acute  attack  which  had  en 
dangered  her  life  and  occasioned  his  recall.  He  soon  unfolded 
to  her  his  new  views  of  life,  and  the  career  which  he  had  marked 
out  for  himself.  New  views  indeed — new  and  incomprehensible 
to  Lady  Houstoun !  She  saw  not  that  the  life  of  indulgence,  the 
perpetual  gala-day,  which  she  anticipated  for  her  son,  would  have 
condemned  him  to  see  his  highest  powers  dwindle  away  and  die 
in  the  lethargy  of  inaction,  or  to  waste  in  repinings  against  fate 
those  energies  given  to  command  success.  Time  moderated  her 
astonishment,  and  quiet  perseverance  subdued  her  opposition — 
subdued  it  the  more  readily,  perhaps,  from  the  knowledge  that 
her  son  could  accomplish  his  designs  without  her  aid,  by  turning 
into  money  the  plate,  jewels  and  pictures  received  from  his  fa 
ther.  Edward  Houstoun's  first  act,  after  securing  the  execution 
of  his  designs,  was  to  inform  Lucy  of  the  progress  he  had  made. 
His  own  absence  from  New- York  at  this  time  would  have  exci 
ted  his  mother's  surprise,  and  might  have  aroused  her  suspicions, 
but  the  haste  with  which  he  had  left  the  Glen  furnished  him  with 
a  plausible  excuse  for  sending  his  own  man  to  look  after  clothing, 
books,  &c.,  that  had  been  forgotten,  and  by  him  a  letter  could,  he 
knew,  be  safely  sent. 

A  few  days  brought  back  to  him  his  own  letter,  with  the  in 
telligence  that  Lucy  had  left  Farmer  Pye's  family.  Where  she 
had  gone,  they  could  not,  or  would  not  tell.  Setting  all  fears  at 
defiance,  he  went  himself  to  the  Glen — he  sounded  and  examined 
and  cross-examined  every  member  of  the  farmer's  family ;  but  in 
vain  were  his  efforts.  He  only  learned  that  she  had  declared  her 
intention  of  supporting  herself  by  her  own  exertions,  instead  of 
continuing  dependent  on  the  Lady  Houstoun — that  she  had  re- 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  223 

tnrned  the  lady's  last  donation,  through  the  farmer,  with  many 
expressions  of  gratitude,  and  that  she  had  left  home  for  the  house 
of  an  acquaintance  in  New- York,  from  whom  she  hoped  to  receive 
advice  and  assistance  in  the  accomplishment  of  her  intentions. 
She  had  mentioned  neither  the  name  nor  place  of  residence  of 
this  friend,  and  though  she  had  written  once  to  the  good  farmer, 
she  had  only  informed  that  she  had  found  a  home  and  employment, 
without  reference  to  any  person  or  place.  Edward  asked  to  see 
the  letter — it  was  brought,  but  the  post-mark  told  no  secret — it 
was  that  of  the  nearest  post-town,  and  the  farmer,  opening  the 
letter,  showed  that  Lucy  had  said  she  had  requested  the  bearer 
to  drop  it  into  that  office.  Who  that  bearer  was,  none  knew. 
Bitter  was  the  disappointment  of  Edward  Houstoun.  A  beau 
tiful  vision  had  crossed  his  path,  had  awakened  his  noblest 
impulses,  kindled  his  passionate  devotion,  and  then  vanished 
for  ever.  But  she  had  left  ineradicable  traces  of  her  presence. 
His  awakened  energies,  his  passionate  longings,  his  altered  life, 
all  gave  assurance  that  she  had  been — that  the  bright  ideal  of 
womanly  beauty  and  tenderness,  and  gentleness  and  firmness, 
which  lived  in  his  memory,  was  no  dream  of  fancy.  He  antici 
pated  little  pleasure  now  from  the  pursuits  on  which  he  had  lately 
determined,  but  his  pride  forbade  him  to  relinquish  them,  and 
when  once  they  had  been  commenced,  finding  in  mental  occupa 
tion  his  Lethe,  he  abandoned  himself  to  them  with  all  his  accus 
tomed  ardor. 

Two  years  passed  away  with  Edward  Houstoun  in  the  most  • 
intense  intellectual  action,  and  in  deathlike  torpor  of  the  affec 
tions.     From  the  last  his  mother  might  have  saved  him,  had  not 
her  want  of  sympathy  with  his  pursuits  occasioned  a  barrier  of 
reserve  and  coolness  to  arise  between  them  fatal  to  her  influence. 


224  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

During  this  time  no  token  of  Lucy's  existence  had  reached  him, 
and  it  was  with  such  a  thrill  as  might  have  welcomed  a  visitant 
from  the  dead,  that,  one  morning  as  he  left  his  own  house  to  pro 
ceed  to  the  office  in  which  he  pursued  his  studies,  he  saw  before 
him  at  the  distance  of  a  block,  yet  without  any  intervening  object 
to  interrupt  his  view  of  her,  a  form  and  face  resembling  hers, 
though  thinner  and  paler.  The  lady  was  approaching  him,  with 
slow  and  languid  steps,  but  as  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
ground  she  did  not  perceive  him,  and  just  as  his  throbbing  heart 
exclaimed  "  It  is  Lucy,"  and  he  sprang  forward  to  greet  her,  she 
entered  a  house  and  the  door  closed  on  her.  The  inmates  of  that 
house  were  but  slightly  known  to  him,  as  they  had  only  lately 
moved  into  the  street,  yet  he  hesitated  not  an  instant  in  ringing 
the  bell,  and  inquiring  of  the  servant  who  presented  himself  at 
the  door,  for  Miss  Watson. 

"Miss  "Watson,  sir?"  repeated  the  man,  "there  is  no  such 
person  living  here." 

"  She  may  not  live  here,  but  I  saw  her  enter  your  door,  and 
I  wish  to  speak  to  her."  At  this  moment  Lucy  crossed  the  hall 
at  its  further  end,  and  he  sprang  forward,  exclaiming,  "Lucy — 
Miss  Watson — thank  Heaven  I  see  you  once  more !" 

A  slight  scream  from  Lucy,  and  the  tremor  which  shook 
her  frame  showed  her  recognition  of  him.  She  leaned  for  an 
instant  against  the  wall,  too  faint  for  speech  or  action,  while  he 
clasped  her  hand  in  his  ;  but  a  voice  broke  in  upon  his  raptures 
and  her  agitation — a  sharp,  angry  voice,  coming  from  a  lady  who, 
leaning  over  the  balustrade  of  the  stairs,  had  seen  and  heard  all 
that  was  passing  below. 

"  Lucy — Lucy — come  up  here — I  am  waiting  for  you — this  is 
certainly  very  extraordinary  conduct — very  extraordinary  in 
deed." 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  225 

"  You  shall  not  go,"  said  Edward  Houstoun,  while  the  red 
blood  flushed  to  his  brow  at  the  thought  that  his  Lucy  could  be 
thus  ordered.  Lucy's  face  glowed  too,  and  there  was  a  proud 
flash  from  her  eye,  yet  she  resisted  his  efforts  to  detain  her, 
and  when  he  placed  himself  before  her  to  prevent  her  leaving 
him,  she  opened  a  door  near  her,  and  though  he  followed  her 
quickly  through  it,  he  was  just  in  time  to  see  her  rushing  up  a 
private  staircase.  He  would  not  leave  the  house  without  an  in 
terview,  and  going  into  one  of  the  parlors,  he  rang  the  bell,  and 
requested  to  see  Mrs.  Blakely,  the  lady  of  the  house.  She  came, 
looking  very  haughty  and  very  angry.  He  apologized  for  his 
intrusion,  but  expressed  a  wish  to  see  a  young  lady,  Miss 
"Watson,  who  was,  he  perceived,  under  her  care.  With  a 
yet  haughtier  air,  Mrs.  Blakely  replied,  "I  am  not  acquainted 
with  any  young  lady  of  the  name  of  Watson.  Lucy  Watson,  the 
girl  whom  you  met  in  the  hall  just  now — is  my  seamstress.  If 
you  wish  to  see  her,  I  will  send  her  down  to  you,  though  I  do 
not  generally  allow  my  servants  to  receive  their  visitors  here." 

"I  shall  be  happy  to  see  her  wherever  you  please,"  was 
Edward  Houstoun's  very  truthful  reply. 

Mrs.  Blakely  left  him,  and  he  stationed  himself  at  the  door 
to  watch  for  Lucy.  Minutes,  which  seemed  to  him  hours,  passed, 
and  she  came  not.  At  length,  as  he  was  about  to  ring  again, 
steps  were  heard  approaching ;  he  turned  quickly,  but  it  was 
not  Lucy.  The  girl  who  entered  handed  him  a  sealed  note.  He 
tore  it  open  and  read — "  I  dare  not  see  you.  When  you  receive 
this  I  shall  have  left  the  house,  and,  as  none  know  whither  I 
have  gone,  questions  would  be  useless." 

In  an  instant  he  was  in  the  street,  looking  with  eager  eyes 
hither  and  thither  for  some  trace  of  the  lost  one.  He  looked  in 
15 


226  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

vain,  yet  he  went  towards  his  office  with  happier  feelings  than  he 
had  long  known.  He  knew  now  where  Lucy  was,  and  a  thou 
sand  expedients  suggested  themselves,  by  which  he  could  not  fail 
to  see  her.  If  he  could  only  converse  with  her  for  a  few  minutes, 
he  was  assured  he  could  prevail  on  her  to  leave  her  present  posi 
tion,  of  which  he  could  not  bear  to  think  for  a  moment.  His 
heart  swelled,  his  brow  flushed,  whenever  the  remembrance  of 
that  position  flashed  upon  his  mind,  yet  he  never  for  an  instant 
regarded  it  as  changing  his  relations  with  Lucy,  or  lessening  his 
desire  to  call  her  his.  He  recollected  with  pleasure  two  circum 
stances  which  had  scarcely  been  marked  at  the  moment  of  their 
occurrence.  The  man  who  had  opened  the  door  to  him,  when  he 
saw  him  spring  forward  to  meet  Lucy,  had  exclaimed,  "  Oh !  it 
was  Miss  Lucy  you  meant,  sir;"  and  the  girl  who  handed  the 
note  had  said,  " Miss  Lucy  has  gone  out,  sir."  It  was  evident  she 
was  not  regarded  by  the  servants  as  one  of  themselves — she  had 
not  been  degraded  by  association  with  menials.  This  was  true. 
Lucy  had  made  such  separation  on  her  part  an  indispensable  ne 
cessity,  and  Mrs.  Blakely  had  been  too  sensible  of  the  value  of  one 
possessing  so  much  taste  and  skill  in  all  feminine  adornments,  to 
hesitate  about  complying  with  her  demand.  This  lady  was  one 
of  the  nouveaux  riches,  who  occupied  her  life  in  scheming  to  attain 
a  position  to  which  neither  birth  nor  education  entitled  her.  The 
brightest  dream  connected  with  her  present  abode  had  been  that 
its  proximity  to  Lady  Houstoun's  residence  might  lead  to  an  ac 
quaintance  with  one  of  the  proudest  of  that  charmed  circle  in 
which  Mrs.  Blakely  longed  to  tread.  Hitherto  this  had  proved  a 
dream  indeed,  but  Edward  Houstoun's  incursion  into  her  domain, 
and  the  developments  made  by  it,  might,  she  thought,  with  a 
little  address,  render  it  a  reality.  It  was  with  this  purpose  that 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  227 

she  sent  a  note  to  Lady  Houstoun,  requesting  an  interview  with 
her  on  a  subject  deeply  connected  with  the  honor  of  her  family 
and  the  happiness  of  her  son.  Immediately  on  dispatching  this 
note,  the  servants  were  ordered  to  uncover  the  furniture  in  the 
drawing-room,  while  she  herself  hastened  to  assume  her  most 
becoming  morning-dress.  Her  labors  were  fruitless.  "Lady 
Houstoun  would  be  at  home  to  Mrs.  Blakely  till  noon,"  was  the 
scarcely  courteous  reply  to  her  carefully-worded  note.  It  was  an 
occasion  on  which  she  could  not  afford  to  support  her  pride,  and 
she  availed  herself  of  the  permission  to  call. 

The  interview  between  Lady  Houstoun  and  Mrs.  Blakely 
would  have  been  an  interesting  study  to  the  nice  observer  of 
character.  The  efforts  on  the  part  of  the  one  lady  to  be  conde 
scending,  and  on  that  of  the  other  to  be  dignified,  were  almost 
equally  successful.  Mrs.  Blakely  had  seldom  felt  her  wealth  of 
so  little  consequence  as  in  the  presence  of  her  commanding  yet 
simply  attired  hostess,  and  Lady  Houstoun  had  never  been  more 
disposed  to  assert  the  privileges  of  her  rank,  than  when  she  heard 
that  her  son  had  forgotten  his  own  so  far  as  to  visit  on  terms  of 
equality — nay,  if  Mrs.  Blakely  was  to  be  believed,  positively  to 
address  in  the  style  of  a  lover — a  seamstress — the  seamstress  of 
Mrs.  Blakely. 

"  This  is  very  painful  intelligence  to  me,  Mrs.  Blakely — of 
course,  you  must  be  aware  that  Mr.  Houstoun  could  only  have 
contemplated  a  temporary  connection  with  this  girl.  I  do  not 
fear  that  in  his  most  reckless  moment  he  could  have  thought  of 
such  a  mesalliance — but  this  young  woman  must  be  saved — she 
was  a  protegee  of  Sir  Edward  Houstoun,  and  for  his  sake  must 
not  be  allowed  to  come  to  harm — may  I  trouble  you  to  send  her 
tome?" 


228  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

The  request  was  given  very  much  in  the  style  of  a  command. 
Mrs.  Blakely  would  not  confess  that  she  had  great  doubts  of  her 
power  to  comply  with  it,  bat  this  would  have  been  sufficiently 
evident  to  any  one  who  had  marked  the  uncertain  air  and  soft 
ened  tone  with  which  Lady  Houstoun's  wishes  were  made  known 
to  Lucy.  Indignant  as  she  was  at  Mrs.  Blakely 's  impertinent 
interference,  Lucy  scarcely  regretted  Lady  Houstoun's  acquaint 
ance  with  her  son's  feelings.  We  do  not  know  that  far  below  all 
those  acknowledged  impulses  leading  her  to  comply  with  the 
lady's  request,  there  did  not  lie  some  romantic  hope  that  influ 
ences  were  astir  through  which 

"Pride  might  be  quelled  and  love  be  free," 

but  this  she  did  not  whisper  even  to  her  own  heart. 

"Better  that  the  lady  should  know  all — she  will  act  both 
wisely  and  tenderly — perhaps,  for  her  son's  sake,  she  will  aid  me 
to  leave  New- York."  Such  was  the  only  language  into  which 
she  allowed  even  her  thought  silently  to  form  itself. 

Arranging  her  simple  dress  with  as  much  care  as  if  she  were 
about  to  meet  her  lover  himself,  Lucy  set  out  for  her  interview  with 
Lady  Houstoun.  She  had  but  a  short  distance  to  traverse,  but 
she  lingered  on  her  way,  oppressed  by  a  tremulous  anxiety.  She 
was  apprehensive  of  she  knew  not  what  or  wherefore — for  again 
and  again  her  heart  acquitted  her  of  all  blame.  At  length  she  is 
at  the  door — it  opens,  and,  with  a  courtesy  which  the  servants  of 
Mrs.  Blakely  never  show  to  a  visitor  who  conies  without  carriage 
or  attendants,  she  is  ushered  into  the  presence  of  Lady  Houstoun. 
The  lady  fixes  her  eyes  upon  her  as  she  enters,  bows  her  head 
slightly  in  acknowledgment  of  her  courtesy,  and  says  coldly, 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  £29 

"  You  are  tlie  young  woman,  I  suppose,  whom  Mrs.  Blakely  was 
to  send  to  me  ?" 

Lucy  paused  for  a  moment,  to  still  the  throbbing  of  her  heart, 
before  she  attempted  to  reply.  The  thought  flashed  through  her 
mind,  "  I  am  a  woman  and  young,  and  therefore  she  should  pity 
me" — but  she  answered  in  a  low,  sweet,  tremulous  tone — "  I  am 
the  Lucy  Watson,  madam;  to  whom  Sir  Edward  Houstoun  was  so 
kind." 

At  that  name  a  softer  expression  stole  over  the  Lady  Hous 
toun's  face,  and  she  glanced  quickly  at  a  portrait  hanging  over 
the  ample  fireplace,  which  represented  a  gentleman  of  middle 
age,  dressed  in  the  uniform  of  a  colonel  of  the  American  army. 
As  she  turned  her  eyes  again  on  Lucy,  she  saw  that  hers  were 
fastened  on  the  same  object. 

"  You  have  seen  Sir  Edward?"  she  said  in  gentle  tones. 

"  Seen  him,  lady  ! — I  loved  him — oh  how  dearly !" 

"  Honored  him  would  be  a  more  appropriate  expression." 

"  I  loved  him,  lady — we  are  permitted  to  love  our  God,"  said 
Lucy,  firmly. 

Lady  Houstoun's  brow  grew  stern  again — "And  from  this 
you  argue,  doubtless,  that  you  have  a  right  to  love  his  son." 

Lucy's  pale  face  became  crimson,  and  she  bent  her  eyes  to  the 
ground  without  speaking — the  lady  continued — "  I  scarcely  think 
that  you  could  yourself  have  believed  that  Edward  Houstoun 
intended  to  dishonor  his  family  by  a  legal  connection  with  you." 

The  crimson  deepened  on  Lucy's  face,  but  it  was  now  the 
flush  of  pride,  and  raising  her  head  she  met  Lady  Houstoun's 
eyes  fully  as  she  replied — "  I  could  not  believe  that  he  ever  de 
signed  to  dishonor  himself  by  ruining  the  orphan  child  of  him 
who  died  in  his  father's  defence." 


230  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

"  And  you  have  intended  to  avail  yourself  of  his  infatuation. 
The  menial  of  Mrs.  Blakely  would  be  a  worthy  daughter,  truly, 
of  a  house  which  has  counted  nobles  among  its  members." 

"  If  I  have  resisted  Mr.  Houstoun's  wishes — separated  myself 
from  him,  and  resigned  all  hope  of  even  looking  on  his  face 
again,  it  has  not  been  from  the  slightest  reverence  for  the  nobil 
ity  of  his  descent,  but  from  self-respect,  from  a  regard  to  the  no 
bleness  of  my  own  spirit.  I  had  eaten  of  your  bread,  lady,  and 
I  could  not  do  that  which  might  grieve  you — yet  the  bread  which 
had  cost  me  so  much  became  bitter  to  me,  and  I  left  the  home 
you  had  provided  to  seek  one  by  my  own  honest  labors.  I  have 
earned  my  bread,  but  not  as  a  menial — not  in  the  companionship 
of  the  vulgar — and  this  Mrs.  Blakely  could  have  told  you." 

"  If  your  determination  was,  as  you  say,  to  separate  yourself 
from  Mr.  Houstoun,  it  is  unfortunate  that  you  should  have  taken 
up  your  residence  so  near  us." 

"  I  knew  not  until  this  morning  that  I  was  near  you." 

"  If  you  are  sincere  in  what  you  say,  you  will  have  no  objec 
tion  now  to  leave  New- York." 

"  I  have  no  objection  to  go  to  any  place  in  which  I  can  support 
myself  in  peace." 

"  As  to  supporting  yourself,  that  is  of  no  consequence.  I 
will—" 

"  Pardon  me,  Lady  Houstoun,  it  is  of  the  utmost  consequence 
to  me.  I  cannot  again  live  a  dependent  on  your  bounty." 

"  What  can  you  do  ?  Has  your  education  been  such  that 
you  can  take  the  situation  of  governess  ?" 

"  Mr.  Merton  was  a  highly  educated  man,  and  Mrs.  Merton 
an  accomplished  woman — it  was  their  pleasure  to  teach  me,  and 
mine  to  learn  from  them." 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  231 

"Accomplished!  There  stands  a  harp  which  has  just  been 
tuned  by  a  master  for  a  little  concert  we  are  to  have  this  evening. 
Can  you  play  on  it  ?" 

Lucy  drew  the  instrument  to  her  and  played  an  overture  cor 
rectly,  yet  with  less  spirit  than  she  would  have  done  had  her 
fingers  trembled  less. 

"  Can  you  sing  ?" 

Elevated  above  all  apprehension  by  the  indignant  pride  which 
this  cold  and  haughty  questioning  aroused,  Lucy  changed  the 
music  of  the  overture  for  a  touching  air,  and  sang,  with  a  rich, 
full  voice,  a  single  stanza  of  an  Italian  song. 

"  Italian !     Do  you  understand  it  ?" 

"  I  have  read  it  with  Mr.  Merton." 

"  This  is  fortunate.  I  have  been  for  weeks  in  search  of  a 
governess  for  a  friend  residing  in  the  country.  I  will  order  the 
carriage  and  take  you  there  instantly — or  stay — return  home  and 
put  up  your  clothes.  I  will  send  a  coach  for  you. " 

Again  Lucy  had  vanished  from  Edward  Houstoun's  world, 
nor  could  his  most  munificent  bribes,  nor  most  active  cross-ex 
amination  win  any  other  information  from  Mrs.  Blakely's  house 
hold,  than  that  "  Miss  Lucy  went  away  in  a  carriage" — a  carriage 
whose  description  presented  a  fac  simile  to  every  hackney-coach. 
Spite  of  all  her  precautions,  he  suspected  his  mother ;  to  his  con 
sciousness  of  her  want  of  sympathy  with  his  pursuits,  was  there 
fore  added  a  deep  sense  of  injury,  and  his  heart  grew  sterner,  his 
manner  colder  and  more  reserved  than  ever.  Two  years  more 
were  passed  in  his  studies,  and  a  third  in  the  long  delays,  the  fruit 
less  efforts  which  mark  the  entrance  on  any  career  of  profitable 
exertion.  During  all  this  time,  Lady  Houstoun  was  studious  to 
bring  around  him  the  loveliest  daughters  of  affluence  and  rank. 


232  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

Graceful  forms  flitted  through  lier  lialls,  and  the  music  of  sweet 
voices  and  the  gay  laughter  of  innocent  and  happy  hearts  were 
heard  within  her  rooms,  but  by  all  their  attractions  Edward  Hous- 
toun  was  unmoved.  Courteous  and  bland  to  all,  he  never  lin 
gered  by  the  side  of  one — no  quick  flush,  no  flashing  beam  told 
that  even  for  a  passing  moment  his  heart  was  again  awake. 
Could  it  be  that  from  all  this  array  of  loveliness  he  was  guarded 
by  the  memory  of  her  who  had  stamped  the  impress  of  herself 
on  his  whole  altered  being?  If  the  gratification  of  the  man's 
sterner  ambition  could  have  atoned  for  the  disappointment  of  the 
youth's  dream  of  love,  the  shadow  of  that  memory  would  have 
passed  from  his  life.  Step  by  step  he  had  risen  in  the  opinions 
of  men,  and  at  length  one  of  the  most  profound  lawyers  of  the 
day  sought  his  association  with  himself  in  a  case  of  the  most  in 
tense  interest,  involving  the  honor  of  a  lovely  and  much  wronged 
woman.  His  reputation  out  of  the  halls  of  justice  had  already 
become  such  that  many  thronged  the  court  to  hear  him.  Gallant 
gentlemen  and  fair  ladies  looked  down  on  him  from  the  galleries 
— but  far  apart  from  these,  in  a  distant  corner,  sat  one  whose  tall 
form  was  enveloped  in  a  cloak,  and  whose  face  was  closely  veiled. 
Beneath  that  cloak  throbbed  a  mother's  heart,  and  through  that 
veil  a  mother's  eyes  sought  the  face  she  loved  best  on  earth.  He 
knew  not  she  was  there,  for  she  rarely  now  asked  a  question  re 
specting  his  engagements,  or  expressed  any  interest  in  his  move 
ments,  yet  how  her  ears  drank  in  the  music  of  his  voice,  and  her 
eyes  flashed  back  the  proud  light  that  shone  in  his.  As  she  list 
ened  to  his  delineation  of  woman's  claims  to  the  sympathy  and 
the  defence  of  every  generous  heart,  as  she  heard  his  biting  sar 
casm  on  the  cowardly  nature  that,  having  wronged,  would  now 
crush  into  deeper  ruin  his  fair  client,  as  she  saw  kindling  eyes 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  233 

fixed  upon  him,  and  caught,  when  he  paused  for  a  moment  ex 
hausted  by  the  rush  of  indignant  feeling,  the  low  murmur  of  ad 
miring  crowds,  how  she  longed  to  cry  aloud,  "  My  son — my  son!" 
He  speaks  again.  Higher  and  higher  rises  his  lofty  strain,  bear 
ing  along  with  it  the  passions  of  the  multitude.  He  ceases — and, 
as  if  touched  by  an  electric  shock,  hundreds  spring  at  once  to 
their  feet.  The  emphatic  "  Silence"  of  the  venerable  judge 
hushes  the  shout  upon  their  lips,  but  the  mother  has  seen  that 
movement,  and,  bursting  into  tears  of  proud,  triumphant  joy,  she 
finds  her  way  below,  and  is  in  the  street  before  the  verdict  which 
his  eloquence  had  won  was  pronounced. 

Edward  Houstoun  had  fitted  up  a  room  in  his  mother's  house 
as  a  study,  and  over  his  accustomed  seat  hung  his  father's  por 
trait.  To  that  room  he  went  on  his  return  from  the  scene  we 
have  described.  Beneath  the  portrait  stood  one  who  seldom  en 
tered  there.  She  turned  at  the  opening  of  the  door — the  lip, 
usually  so  firmly  compressed,  was  quivering  with  emotion,  and 
those  stern  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  She  advanced  to  him,  drew 
near,  and  resting  her  head  upon  his  shoulder  whispered,  "  I,  too, 
am  a  woman  needing  tenderness — shut  not  your  heart  against 
me,  my  son,  for  without  you  I  am  alone  in  the  world." 

The  proud  spirit  had  bent,  the  sealed  fountain  was  opened, 
and,  as  he  clasped  his  arms  around  her,  the  tears  of  mother  and 
son  mingled — but  amidst  the  joy  of  this  reunion  Edward  Hous 
toun  felt  more  deeply  than  he  had  done  for  long  months  the  de 
solation  that  had  fallen  on  his  life.  His  heart  had  been  silent — 
it  now  spoke  again,  and  sad  were  its  tones. 

It  is  summer.  The  courts  are  closed,  and  all  who  can  are  es 
caping  from  the  city's  heat  to  the  cool,  refreshing  shades  of  the 
country.  Wo  to  those  who  remain !  The  pestilence  has  stretched 


234  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

her  wings  over  them.  The  shadow  and  the  silence  of  death  has 
fallen  on  their  deserted  streets.  The  yellow-fever  is  in  New- York 
—introduced,  it  is  said,  by  ships  from  the  West  Indies.  Before 
it  appeared  Edward  Houstoun  was  far  away.  He  was  travelling 
to  recruit  his  exhausted  powers — to  Niagara,  perhaps  into  Can 
ada,  and  in  the  then  slow  progress  of  news,  he  was  little  likely 
to  be  recalled  by  any  intelligence  from  the  city.  His  mother 
was  one  of  the  first  who  had  sickened.  And  where  were  now 
the  fair  forms  that  had  encircled  her  in  health — where  the  ser 
vants  who  had  administered  with  obsequious  attention  to  her 
lightest  wish?  All  had  fled,  for  no  gratified  vanity — no  low 
cupidity  can  give  courage  for  attendance  on  the  bed  of  one  in 
whose  breath  death  is  supposed  to  lurk.  The  devotedness  of 
love,  the  self-sacrifice  of  Christian  Charity,  are  the  only  impulses 
for  such  a  deed.  Yet  over  the  sufferer  is  bending  one  whose 
form  in  its  perfect  development  has  richly  fulfilled  its  early  pro 
mise,  and  whose  face  is  more  beautiful  in  the  gentle  strength  and 
thoughtfulness  of  womanhood  than  it  had  been  in  all  its  early 
brightness.  In  her  peaceful  home,  where  the  reverent  love  of 
her  young  pupils  and  the  confidence  of  their  parents  had  made 
her  happy,  Lucy  had  heard  from  one  of  Lady  Houstoun's  ter 
rified  domestics  of  the  condition  in  which  she  had  been  left,  and 
few  hours  sufficed  to  bring  her  to  her  side.  Days  and  nights  of 
the  most  assiduous  watchfulness,  cheered  by  no  companionship, 
followed,  and  then  the  physician,  as  he  stood  beside  his  patient 
and  marked  her  regular  breathing,  her  placid  sleep,  and  the 
moisture  on  her  brow,  whispered,  "You  have  saved  her." 

We  will  not  linger  to  describe  the  emotions  with  which  Lady 
Houstoun,  awaking  from  this  long  and  tranquil  slumber,  ex 
hausted,  but  no  longer  delirious,  first  recognized  her  nurse.  At 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  235 

first,  no  doubt,  painful  recollections  were  aroused,  but  with  the 
feebleness  of  childhood  had  returned  much  of  its  gentleness  and 
susceptibility,  and  Lucy  was  at  once  so  tender  and  so  cheerful, 
that  very  soon  her  ministerings  were  received  with  unalloyed 
pleasure. 

Sickness  is  a  heavenly  teacher  to  those  who  will  open  their 
hearts  to  her.  Lady  Houstoun  arose  to  a  new  life.  She  had 
stood  so  near  to  death  that  she  seemed  to  have  looked  upon  earth 
in  the  light  of  eternity.  In  that  light,  rank  and  title  with  all 
their  lofty  associations  and  splendid  accompaniments,  faded  away, 
while  true  nobleness,  the  nobleness  which  dwells  in  the  Christian 
precept,  "  Love  your  enemies — do  good  to  those  that  despitefully 
use  you,"  stood  out  in  all  its  beauty  and  excellence. 

As  soon  as  Lady  Houstoun  could  be  removed  with  safety,  she 
went,  by  the  advice  of  her  physician,  to  her  country  seat.  Lucy 
would  now  have  returned  to  her  pupils — she  feared  every  day 
lest  Edward  Houstoun  should  appear,  and  a  new  contest  be  neces 
sary  with  his  feelings  and  her  own — but  Lady  Houstoun  still 
pleaded  her  imperfectly  restored  health  as  reason  for  another 
week's  delay,  and  Lucy  could  not  resist  her  pleadings. 

It  was  afternoon,  and  Lucy  sat  in  the  library,  which  was  in 
the  rear  of  the  house,  far  removed  from  its  public  entrance. 
Spenser's  Faery  Queen  was  in  her  hand,  but  she  had  turned  from 
its  witching  pages  to  gaze  upon  the  title-page,  on  which  was 
written,  in  Edward  Houstoun's  hand,  "June  24th,  17 — ."  It 
was  the  day,  as  Lucy  well  remembered,  on  which  he  had  first  re 
vealed  his  love,  and  chosen  his  career  in  life.  She  was  aroused 
from  her  reverie  by  Lady  Houstoun's  entrance.  As  she  held  the 
door  open  the  bright  sunlight  from  an  opposite  window  threw  a 
shadow  on  the  floor  which  made  Lucy's  heart  throb  painfully. 
13 


236  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

She  looked  eagerly  forward — a  manly  form  entered  and  stood 
before  her.  She  could  not  turn  from  the  pleading  eyes  which 
were  fixed  with  such  intense  earnestness  on  hers.  "With  a  bewil 
dered,  half-conscious  air  she  rose  from  her  chair.  He  came  near 
her  and  extended  his  arms.  One  glance  at  the  smiling  Lady 
Houstoun  showed  Lucy  that  her  interdict  was  removed,  and  the 
next  instant  she  lay  in  speechless  joy  once  more  upon  her  lover's 
bosom. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

WE  were  within  three  days  of  the  New  Year.  Mr.  Arlington, 
who  was  quite  learned  on  the  subject,  had  been  amusing  us  with 
an  account  of  its  various  modes  of  celebration  in  various  coun 
tries.  He  was  quite  brilliant  in  a  description  of  New-York  as 
seen  under  the  sun  of  a  clear,  frosty  New  Year  morning,  with 
snow  enough  to  make  the  sleighing  good.  The  gay,  fantastic 
sleighs,  dashing  hither  and  thither,  and  their  exhilarated  occu 
pants  bowing  now  on  this  side  and  now  on  that,  to  acquaintances 
rushing  by  almost  too  rapidly  to  be  distinguished,  while  the 
silvery  bells  ring  out  their  merry  peals  on  the  still  air.  Then 
the  festive  array  which  greets  the  caller  at  every  house  within 
which  he  enters.  Beauty  adorned  with  smiles  and  dress,  gayly 
decorated  tables,  brightly  burning  fires,  and  every  thing  seeming 
to  speak  the  welcome  not  of  mere  form,  but  of  hearty  hospitality. 
There  is  one  aspect  in  which  he  presents  this  day  to  us,  that  is 
peculiarly  pleasing.  He  says,  that  many  a  slight  estrangement 
springing  from  some  one  of  those  "trifles"  which  "make  the  sum 
of  human  life"  has  been  prevented,  by  the  influence  of  this  day, 
from  becoming  a  life-long  enmity.  Thus  the  New  Year's  day 
becomes  a  Peace-maker,  and  has  on  it  the  blessing  of  Heaven. 
Long  live  the  custom  which  has  made  it  such ! 

"And  how  shall  we  celebrate  our  New  Year?"  asked  Col. 
Donaldson. 

"  Let  us  introduce  the  New- York  custom,"  suggested  one. 


238  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

"  That  would  not  do  without  some  previous  agreement  with 
your  neighbors,"  replied  Mr.  Arlington,  "  as  their  ladies  would 
not  probably  be  prepared  for  your  visits,  and  while  you  were 
making  them,  the  ladies  of  your  own  family  would  be  left  to  en 
tertain  themselves  as  they  could." 

"  That  will  never  do,"  said  Col.  Donaldson ;  "  better  invite  all 
our  neighbors  to  visit  us  on  that  day.  Suppose  we  give  them  a 
dinner?" 

"Oh,  papa!"  cried  Miss  Donaldson  in  dismay.  And  "My 
dear  husband!"  ejaculated  the  smiling  Mrs.  Donaldson,  "where 
would  you  find  a  room  to  accommodate  them  all  ?" 

"  True — true — we  could  not  dine  them  in  the  open  air  at  this 
season." 

"But  there  would  be  no  such  objection  to  an  evening  party," 
said  one  of  the  young  Donaldsons.  "We  have  fine  sleighing 
now,  and  the  moon  rises  only  a  little  after  eight  on  New  Yeai 
evening ;  why  not  invite  them  for  the  evening." 

"  What,  another  such  stiff  affair  as  Annie  insisted  on  enter 
taining  her  friends  the  Misses  Morrisons  with  the  last  winter, 
when  I  saw  one  of  the  poor  girls  actually  clap  her  hands  with 
delight  at  the  announcement  of  her  carriage  ?" 

"Oh,  no !  Leave  it  to  me,  and  it  shall  not  be  a  stiff  affair  at 
all.  We  will  appear  in  fancy  dresses — " 

"  My  dear  Philip !"  remonstrated  Mrs.  Donaldson. 

"  Oh !  not  you,  my  dear  mother,  nor  my  father,  unless  he 
likes  it — indeed,  it  shall  be  optional  with  all — but  enough,  I  am 
sure,  will  like  it  to  make  an  entertaining  variety." 

"  But  where  shall  we  get  fancy  dresses,  distant  as  we  are  from 
the  city  ?"  asked  Annie. 

"Leave  yours  to  me,  Annie,  I  have  it  ready  for  you,"  said 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  £39 

Philip  Donaldson,  with  so  significant  an  air,  that  I  at  once  sus 
pected  this  suggestion  to  have  been  the  result  of  the  arrival  on 
that  very  day  of  a  box,  addressed  to  him  by  a  ship  from  Con 
stantinople,  of  which  box  he  had  hitherto  made  a  great  mystery. 

"  Thank  you,  Philip ;  but  you  cannot,  I  suppose,  supply  all 
the  company,  and  I  had  rather  not  be  the  only  one  in  fancy  cos 
tume,  if  you  please." 

"  If  mamma  will  surrender  to  me  the  key  of  that  great  ward 
robe,  upstairs,  which  contains  the  brocade  dresses,  shoe-buckles, 
knee-buckles,  etc.,  of  our  great-grandfathers  and  grandmothers,  I 
will  promise  to  supply  dresses  for  our  own  party,  at  least,  with  a 
little  aid  from  the  needles  and  scissors." 

"I  bar  scissors,"  cried  Col.  Donaldson.  "Those  venerable 
heir-looms — " 

"Shall  not  lose  a  shred,  sir,"  said  Philip;  "the  scissors  shall 
only  be  xised  to  cut  the  threads,  with  which  the  ladies  take  in  a 
reef  here  and  there,  when  it  is  necessary." 

"  But  you  have  only  provided  for  our  party.  Are  our  guests 
not  to  be  in  costume?" 

"  That  will  be  as  they  please.  We  will  express  the  wish,  and 
if  they  have  any  ingenuity,  they  will  have  no  difficulty  in  get 
ting  up  some  of  the  staple  characters  of  such  a  scene,  flower-girls 
and  shepherdesses,  sailors,  sultans,  and  beggars." 

The  scheme  seemed  feasible  enough,  when  thus  presented, 
and  had  enough  of  novelty  to  please  the  young  people.  It  was 
accordingly  adopted,  and  the  evening  was  passed  in  writing  invi 
tations,  which  were  dispatched  at  an  early  hour  the  next  morn 
ing.  The  three  succeeding  days  were  days  of  pleasurable  excite 
ment,  in  preparation  for  the  fete.  Needles  and  scissors  were 
both  in  active  use,  and  the  brocade  dresses  lost,  I  am  afraid,  more 


240  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

than  one  shred  in  the  process  of  adjusting  them  to  the  figures  for 
which  they  were  now  designed.  Mrs.  Dudley  and  Mrs.  Seagrove 
were  thus  arranged  as  rival  beauties  of  the  court  of  Queen  Anne, 
Philip  Donaldson,  with  the  aid  of  a  bag-wig,  for  which  Mr.  Ar 
lington  has  written  at  his  request  to  a  friend  in  what  city  I  may 
not  say,  and  with  some  of  his  father's  youthful  finery,  and  the 
shoe  and  knee  buckles  aforesaid,  will  make  an  excellent  beau  for 
these  belles.  Col.  Donaldson,  always  ready  for  any  harmless 
mirth,  says  they  must  accept  him  in  his  father's  continental  uni 
form  for  another.  Mr.  Arlington  makes  quite  a  mystery  of  his 
costume,  but  it  is  a  mystery  already  revealed,  both  to  Col.  Don 
aldson  and  Philip,  as  I  can  plainly  perceive  by  the  significant 
glances  they  exchange  whenever  an  allusion  is  made  to  it.  Eob- 
ert  Dudley  is  to  be  a  page,  Charles  Seagrove,  a  beautiful  boy  of 
six  years  old,  an  Oberon,  and  our  little  Eva  a  Titania.  Mrs.  Don 
aldson  and  I  were  permitted  to  appear  in  our  usual  dress,  and  Miss 
Donaldson  strenuously  claimed  the  same  privilege,  but  it  was  not 
granted  to  her.  She  resisted  all  entreaties,  even  from  her  favor 
ite  brother  Arthur ;  but  when  her  father  gravely  regretted  her 
inability  to  sympathize  with  the  enjoyments  of  others,  she  was 
overcome.  Having  yielded,  she  yielded  entirely,  and  was  willing 
to  wear  any  thing  her  sisters  wished.  As  she  is  considered  by 
them  all,  even  in  her  thirty-third  year,  as  the  beauty  of  the 
family,  her  dress  has  been  more  carefully  studied  by  them  than 
any  other.  Every  book  of  costumes  within  their  reach  was 
searched  for  it  again  and  again,  without  success ;  one  was  rich, 
but  unbecoming,  another  pretty,  but  it  did  not  suit  her  style, 
and  a  third  all  they  desired,  but  unattainable  at  so  short  a  notice. 
As  a  last  resource,  my  engravings  were  resorted  to,  and  there,  to 
my  own  surprise,  they  found  what  satisfied  all  their  demands. 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  241 

It  was  the  dress  worn  in  her  bridal  days  by  Hotspur's  Kate,  as 
seen  in  the  last  engraving.  Miss  Donaldson  accepted  it  thank 
fully,  as  being  less  bizarre  than  any  yet  proposed  to  her,  requiring 
nothing  more  than  a  full  skirt  of  white  satin,  a  jacket  not  very 
unlike  the  modern  Polka,  and  a  bridal  veil.  One  condition  she 
insisted  on,  however,  namely,  that  Arthur  should  be  her  Hot 
spur.  To  this  he  consented  without  difficulty,  not  without  an 
eye,  I  suspect,  to  the  appearance  of  his  tall,  erect,  graceful  form 
and  bearing  in  such  a  dress. 

The  last  evening  of  the  Old  Year  had  arrived,  our  prepara 
tions  were  completed,  and  our  little  party  were  experiencing 
something  of  that  ennui  which  results  from  having  nothing  to  do, 
when,  in  putting  away  the  materials  lately  in  use,  Annie  found 
my  engraving  of  Hotspur  and  Kate.  Handing  it  to  me,  she  said, 
"  I  know  these  engravings  are  precious,  Aunt  Nancy,  though 
what  can  be  the  association  with  this  one,  I  am,  I  acknowledge, 
at  a  loss  to  conceive." 

"  And  yet  it  is  a  very  simple  one.  I  treasure  it  in  memory 
of  my  friend  Harry  Percy  and  his  bride." 

"What!  Hotspur?"  questioned  Annie,  with  dilating  eyes. 

"  Not  quite,  though  he  was  a  lineal  descendant  of  the  old 
Percys,  and  hot  enough  on  occasion,  too." 

"  You  mean  Col.  Percy  of  the  British  army,  who  married 
Miss  Sinclair,  of  Havre  de  Grace,  during  our  last  war  with  Eng 
land,  or  immediately  after  it,  I  never  quite  understood  which. 
There  seemed  some  mystery  about  the  marriage,  and  I  did  not 
like  to  inquire  too  closely,  but  I  dare  say  now,  Aunt  Nancy,  you 
can  tell  us  all  about  it." 

"  I  believe  I  can.     See,  Annie,  if  among  those  packages  you 
can  find  one  labelled  '  The  Test  of  Love.' " 
16 


242  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

"  What  !  another  story  of  a  proud  beauty  winning  her  glove 
and  losing  her  lover?"  asked  Mr.  Arlington. 

"  No  ;  my  test,  or  rather  my  hero's  test,  was  somewhat  differ 
ent,"  I  replied,  as  I  received  the  package  from  Annie,  and  read, 


€ty  tot  nf 

A    STORY    OF    THE    LAST    WAR. 

WHEN  Mr.  Sinclair,  the  rector  of  St.  John's,  in  Havre  de  Grace, 
took  possession  of  his  pretty  parsonage,  and  persuaded  the  fair 
and  gentle  Lucy  Hilman  to  preside  over  his  unpretending  menage, 
and  to  share  the  comforts  that  lay  within  the  compass  of  his 
salary  of  one  thousand  dollars  per  annum,  he  felt  that  his  largest 
earthly  desires  were  fulfilled.  A  daughter  was  given  to  him, 
and  with  a  grateful  heart  he  exclaimed  —  "surely  Thou  hast 
made  my  cup  to  overflow." 

But  he  too  was  a  man  "  born  to  trouble."  He  too  must  be 
initiated  into  those  "  sacred  mysteries  of  sorrow,"  through  which 
the  high  priest  of  his  profession  had  passed.  In  the  succeeding 
ten  years,  three  other  children  opened  their  soft,  loving  eyes  in 
his  home,  made  its  air  musical  with  their  glad  voices  and  ringing 
laughter,  and  just  as  he  had  learned  to  listen  for  the  pattering  of 
their  dimpled  feet,  and  his  heart  had  throbbed  joyously  to  their 
call,  they  were  borne  from  his  arms  to  the  grave,  and  the  echoes 
which  they  had  awakened  in  his  soul  were  hushed  for  ever.  Still 
Ms  Lucy  and  their  first-born  were  spared,  and  as  he  drew  them 
•closer  to  his  heart  he  could  "lift  his  trusting  eyes"  to  Him  from 
whom  his  faith  taught  him  no  real  evil  could  come  to  the  loving 
spirit.  The  shadow  of  earth  had  fallen  on  his  heart,  but  the  light 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  243 

of  heaven  still  beamed  brightly  there.  Years  passed  with  Mr. 
Sinclair  in  that  deep  quiet  of  the  soul  which  is  "  the  sober  cer 
tainty  of  waking  bliss."  His  labors  were  labors  of  love,  and  he 
was  welcomed  to  repose  by  all  those  charms  which  woman's  taste 
and  woman's  tenderness  can  bring  clustering  around  the  home 
of  him  to  whom  her  heart  is  devoted.  But  a  darker  trial  than 
any  he  had  yet  known  awaited  him. 

War  is  in  our  borders,  and  that  quiet  town  in  which  Mr.  Sin 
clair's  life  has  passed  is  destined  to  feel  its  heaviest  curse.  Its 
streets  are  filled  with  soldiery.  The  dark  canopy  of  smoke  from 
which  now  and  then  a  lurid  flame  shoots  upward,  shows  that 
their  work  is  destruction,  and  that  they  will  do  it  well.  Terrified 
women  flit  hither  and  thither,  mingling  their  shrieks  in  a  wild 
and  fiend-like  concert  with  the  crack  of  musketry,  the  falling  of 
houses,  and  the  loud  huzzas  and  fierce  outcries  of  excited  men. 
At  a  distance  from  that  quarter  in  which  the  strife  commenced, 
stands  a  simple  village  church,  within  whose  shadow  many 
of  those  who  had  worshipped  in  its  walls  during  the  last  half 
century,  have  lain  down  to  rest  from  the  toils  of  life.  No  proud 
mausoleum  shuts  the  sunshine  from  those  lowly  graves.  Droop 
ing  elms  and  willows  bend  over  them,  and  the  whispering  of 
their  long  pendent  branches,  as  the  summer  breeze  sweeps  them 
hither  and  thither,  is  the  only  sound  that  breaks  the  stillness  of 
that  hallowed  air.  Near  the  church,  on  the  opposite  side  from 
this  home  of  the  dead,  lies  a  garden,  where  roses  and  honey 
suckles  perfume  the  air,  while  its  bowers  of  lilac  and  laburnum, 
of  myrtle  and  jessamine,  almost  shut  from  the  view  the  pretty 
cottage  to  which  it  belongs.  All  around,  all  within  that  cottage 
is  silent.  Have  its  inmates  fled  ? 

The  neighboring  houses  have  been  long  deserted,  and  those 


244  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

who  left  them  would  gladly  have  persuaded  their  pastor  to  ac 
company  them ;  but  when  they  called  to  urge  his  doing  so,  he 
could  only  point  to  the  bed  on  which,  already  bereft  of  sense,  and 
evidently  fast  passing  from  life,  lay  one  "  all  lovely  to  the  last." 
Mrs.  Sinclair's  health,  delicate  for  years,  had  rapidly  failed  in  the 
last  few  months,  till  her  anxious  husband  and  child,  aware  that  a 
moment's  acceleration  of  the  pulse,  a  moment's  quickening  of  the 
breath  from  whatever  cause,  might  snatch  her  from  their  arms, 
learned  to  modulate  every  tone,  to  guard  every  look  and  move 
ment  in  her  presence.  But  they  could  not  shut  from  her  ears  the 
boom  of  the  cannon  which  heralded  the  approach  of  the  foe — 
they  could  not  hush  the  startling  cries  with  which  others  met  the 
announcement  of  their  arrival,  and  the  first  evidences  of  that 
savage  fury  which  desolated  their  homes,  and  left  a  dark  stain  on 
the  escutcheon  of  Britain.  Mrs.  Sinclair  uttered  no  cry  when  her 
terrors  were  thus  excited,  she  even  strove  to  smile  upon  her  loved 
ones,  to  raise  their  drooping  hearts,  and  in  this,  woman's  holiest 
task,  the  springs  of  her  life  gave  way — not  with  a  sudden  snap, 
but  slowly,  gently — so  that  for  hours  her  husband  and  daughter 
stood  watching  the  shadow  of  death  steal  over  her,  hoping  yet  to 
catch  one  glance  of  love,  one  whispered  farewell  ere  she  should 
pass  for  ever  from  them. 

"Fear  not,  my  child,"  said  Mr.  Sinclair,  when  their  sad  vigils 
were  first  interrupted  by  those  who  urged  their  flight — "  they  are 
enemies,  it  is  true,  but  they  are  Englishmen.  A  peaceful  clergy 
man,  a  defenceless  woman,  are  safe  in  their  hands — they  will  not 
harm  us." 

"  I  have  no  fear,  no  thought  of  them,  father !"  said  Mary  Sin 
clair,  as  she  turned  weeping  to  the  only  object  of  fear  or  hope,  or 
thought,  at  that  moment. 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  245 

But  soon  others  of  Mr.  Sinclair's  parishioners  come  to  warn 
him  that  his  confidence  had  been  misplaced,  that  no  character,  no 
age,  no  sex,  had  proved  a  protection  from  the  ruthless  fury  of 
their  assailants.  He  would  now  have  persuaded  his  daughter  to 
accompany  her  friends  to  a  place  of  safety,  and  when  persuasions 
proved  vain  he  would  have  commanded  her,  but,  lifting  her  calm 
eyes  to  his,  she  said,  "  Father,  have  you  not  taught  me  that,  in 
all  God's  universe,  the  only  safe  place  for  us  is  that  to  which  our 
duty  calls  us — and  is  not  my  duty  here  ?" 

A  colder  heart  would  have  argued  with  her,  and  might,  per 
haps,  have  proved  to  her  that  her  duty  was  not  there — that  her 
father  could  watch  the  dying,  and  that  it  was  her  duty  to  pre 
serve  herself  for  him ;  but  Mr.  Sinclair  folded  her  in  his  arms, 
while  his  lips  moved  for  an  instant  in  earnest  prayer,  and  then, 
turning  to  his  waiting  friends,  he  said,  "  Go,  go,  my  friends — I 
thank  you — but  God  has  called  us  to  this,  and  He  will  care 
for  us." 

When  the  work  of  desolation  had  been  completed  in  the 
quarter  first  attacked,  parties  of  soldiers  straggled  off  from  the 
main  body  in  search  of  further  prey.  Fearful  was  it  to  meet 
these  men — their  faces  blackened  with  smoke,  their  hands  stained 
with  blood,  fierce  frowns  upon  their  brows,  and  curses  on  their 
lips.  The  parsonage  presented  little  attraction  in  its  external 
aspect  to  men  whose  object  was  plunder,  and  they  turned  first  to 
larger  and  more  showy  buildings.  These  were  soon  rifled  ;  the 
noise  of  their  ribald  songs,  their  blasphemous  oaths  and  drunken 
revelry  penetrating  often  the  chamber  of  death,  yet  scarcely  awa 
kening  an  emotion  in  the  presence  of  the  great  Destroyer.  At 
length  the  little  gate  is  flung  rudely  open,  and  unsteady  but 
heavy  steps  ascend  from  the  court-yard  to  the  house.  They  cross 


246  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

the  piazza,  they  enter  the  parlor  where  life's  gentlest  courtesies 
and  holiest  affections  have  hitherto  dwelt,  the  door  of  the  room 
beyond  is  thrown  open,  and  two  men  stand  upon  its  threshold, 
sobered  for  an  instant  by  the  scene  before  them.  There,  pale, 
emaciated,  the  dim  eyes  closed,  and  the  face  wearing  that  un 
earthly  beauty  which  seems  the  token  of  an  adieu  too  fond,  too 
tender,  too  sacred  for  human  language,  from  the  parting  spirit  to 
its  loved  ones,  the  wife  and  mother,  speechless,  senseless,  yet  not 
quite  lifeless,  lay  propped  by  pillows.  At  her  side  knelt  Mr. 
Sinclair ;  the  pallor  of  deep,  overpowering  emotion  was  on  his 
cheek,  yet  in  his  lifted  eyes  there  was  an  expression  of  holy 
faith,  and  you  might  almost  have  fancied  that  a  smile  lay  upon  the 
lips  which  were  breathing  forth  the  hallowed  strains  of  prayer — 
"  Save  and  deliver  us,  we  humbly  beseech  Thee,  from  the  hands 
of  our  enemies,  that  we,  being  armed  with  thy  defence,  may  be 
preserved  evermore  from  all  perils  to  glorify  Thee,  who  art  the 
only  giver  of  all  victory,  through  the  merits  of  thy  Son,  Jesus 
Christ  our  Lord — Amen." 

Dark,  sinful  men  as  they  were,  fresh  from  brutal  crime,  those 
strains  touched  a  long  silent  chord  in  their  hearts — a  chord  linked 
with  the  memory  of  a  smiling  village  in  their  own  distant  land — 
with  a  mother's  love  and  the  innocence  of  childhood.  Faint — 
faint,  alas  !  were  those  memories,  and  Mr.  Sinclair's  "  amen"  had 
scarce  issued  from  his  lips,  when  the  eyes  of  the  leader  rested  on 
the  beautiful  face  of  Mary  Sinclair,  as,  pressed  to  the  side  of  her 
father,  she  stretched  her  arms  out  over  her  dying  mother,  and 
turned  her  eyes  imploringly  on  their  dreaded  visitors.  The  ruf 
fians  sprang  forward  with  words  whose  meaning  was  happily 
lost  to  the  failing  sense  of  the  terror-stricken  girl.  Mr.  Sinclair 
started  to  his  feet,  and  with  one  arm  still  clasped  around  his 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  247 

daughter,  stood  between  her  and  the  worse  than  murderers  before 
him,  prepared  to  defend  her  with  his  life.  For  the  first  time  he 
thirsted  for  blood,  and  looked  around  for  some  weapon  of  destruc 
tion — but  his  was  the  abode  of  peace — no  weapon  was  there. 
Unarmed,  with  that  loved  burden — loved  at  this  moment  even 
to  agony,  resting  upon  him — he  stood  opposed  to  two  fierce  men 
armed  to  the  teeth.  A  father's  strength  in  such  a  cause,  who 
shall  estimate? — yet,  alas!  his  adversaries  were  demons,  relent 
less  in  purpose,  and  possessed  of  that  superhuman  force  which 
passion  gives.  Weary  of  killing,  or  influenced  by  that  super 
stition  which  sometimes  rules  the  soul  from  which  religion  is 
wholly  banished,  they  did  not  avail  themselves  of  their  swords. 
With  fierce  threats  they  unclasped  his  arm  from  that  senseless 
form,  which  sank  instantly  to  the  floor  at  his  feet,  and  drew 
him  across  the  room.  They  would  have  forced  him  into  the 
parlor,  but  his  resistance  was  desperate,  and  ere  they  could  ac 
complish  this,  the  sound  of  a  drum  beating  the  recall  was  borne 
faintly  to  their  ears.  Leaving  his  comrade  to  hold  the  wildly 
struggling  father,  the  bolder  ruffian  turned  back  toward  the  still 
prostrate  Mary.  At  that  moment,  before  she  had  been  polluted 
by  a  touch,  the  door  was  thrown  violently  back,  and  a  tall, 
manly  form  strode  through  it.  The  gilded  epaulettes  and  droop 
ing  feather  told  his  rank,  before  the  step  of  pride  and  counte 
nance  of  stern  command  had  conveyed  to  the  mind  the  conviction 
that  you  stood  in  the  presence  of  one  accustomed  to  be  obeyed.. 
The  man  who  grasped  Mr.  Sinclair  loosed  his  hold  and  shrank 
cowering  away.  He  went  unnoticed,  for  the  eye  of  the  officer 
had  fallen  upon  him  who  was  in  the  act  of  stooping  to  lift  Mary 
Sinclair  from  the  floor.  With  a  single  spring  he  was  at  his  side, 
and  catching  him  by  the  collar  of  his  coat,  he  hurled  him  front 


248  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

him  with  such  force  that  he  fell  stunned  against  the  farther  wall. 
Mr.  Sinclair  was  already  bending  over  his  daughter.  As  he 
raised  her  on  his  .arm  her  head  fell  back,  exposing  her  face, 
around  which  her  dark  hair  swept  in  dense  masses.  Her  features 
were  of  chiselled  beauty,  and  had  they  been  indeed  of  marble 
they  could  not  have  been  more  bloodless  in  their  hue,  while  her 
jetty  lashes  lay  as  still  upon  her  cheek  as  if  the  hand  of  death 
had  sealed  her  eyes  for  ever.  Mr.  Sinclair  had  no  such  fear.  He 
knew  that  she  had  only  fainted,  and  rejoiced  that  God  in  his 
mercy  had  spared  her  the  worst  horrors  of  the  scene ;  but  as 
Captain  Percy's  eyes  rested  on  her,  a  deeper  scowl  settled  on 
his  brow,  and  in  a  hoarse  whisper  he  asked : — 

"  Have  they  harmed  her,  sir  ?" 

"  Not  by  a  touch,  thank  God !  not  by  a  touch,"  exclaimed 
the  father,  as  he  pressed  her  with  passionate  joy  to  his  heart — 
aye,  joy,  even  in  the  presence  of  her  so  long  the  light  of  his 
life  now  passing  for  ever  from  earth.  For  a  few  minutes  the 
dying  had  been  forgotten,  for  what  was  death' — a  death  of  peace — 
to  the  long  misery  into  which  man's  base,  brutal  passion  would 
have  converted  the  life  of  that  pure  and  lovely  girl  ?  Now, 
however,  she  was  safe,  and  still  supporting  her  on  his  arm,  Mr. 
Sinclair  turned  to  his  wife  and  tenderly  moistened  her  parched 
lips.  What  a  mockery  of  all  human  cares  seemed  that  pale, 
peaceful  brow — peaceful,  while  he  whose  lightest  sorrow  had 
thrown  a  shadow  on  her  life  was  suffering  anguish  inexpressible, 
and  the  child  who  had  lain  in  her  bosom,  to  the  lightest  throb  of 
whose  heart  her  own  had  answered,  lay  senseless  from  terror  in 
his  arms.  It  was  a  scene  to  touch  the  hardest  heart,  and  Captain 
Percy's  heart  was  not  hard.  He  looked  around  for  the  men 
whom  he  had  interrupted  in  their  hellish  designs — they  were  not 
there. 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  249 

"  Is  this  their  work  ?"  lie  asked  of  Mr.  Sinclair,  pointing  to  his 
scarce  breathing  wife." 

"  No — no — this  is  the  gentle  hand  of  our  Father,"  said  Mr. 
Sinclair,  as  he  bent  his  head  and  touched  with  his  lips  the  sunken 
cheek  dearer  to  him  now  than  it  had  been  in  all  its  girlish  round 
ness.  The  blood  had  begun  to  cast  a  slight  tinge  of  red  into  the 
lips  of  Mary  Sinclair  before  Captain  Percy  had  left  the  room 
in  search  of  the  men  whom  he  was  unwilling  to  leave  behind 
him,  and  when  he  returned,  the  tremor  of  her  form  and  the  close 
clasp  with  which  she  clung  to  her  father,  proved  that  her  con 
sciousness  and  her  memory  were  awake.  His  stop  had  startled 
her,  and  as  he  entered  he  heard  Mr.  Sinclair  say,  "  fear  not,  my 
daughter,  that  is  the  step  of  your  deliverer,  and  though  he  is  an 
English  soldier " 

"  I  pray  you,  sir,  judge  not  Englishmen  by  ruffians  like  these 
— a  disgrace  to  the  name  of  man.  Believe  me,  every  country 
has  within  it  wretches,  who,  at  moments  such  as  this,  when  all 
social  restraints  are  withdrawn,  become  demons.  But  I  must 
leave  you,  in  safety,  I  trust,  as  I  have  sent  to  the  ships  all  the 
soldiers  whom  I  could  discover  in  your  neighborhood." 

"  Farewell,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Sinclair,  extending  his  hand — "  God 
reward  you  for  the  timely  aid  you  have  this  day  brought  to  the 
defenceless.  Look  up,  my  child,  and  join  your  thanks  with 
mine." 

Mary  Sinclair  raised  her  head  from  her  father's  bosom,  and 
lifting  her  eyes  for  an  instant  to  the  face  of  Captain  Percy,  un 
closed  her  lips  to  speak,  but  voice  and  words  were  denied  her. 

"  God  bless  you,  lady  !"  he  exclaimed,  as  taking  her  hand  he 
raised  it  to  his  lips,  and  relinquishing  it  with  one  glance  of  sym 
pathy  at  the  dying,  turned  away  and  passed  from  the  room.  He 


250  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

returned  once  more,  but  it  was  only  to  leave  his  pistols  with  Mr. 
Sinclair. 

"  They  are  loaded,  sir,  and  in  such  a  cause  as  you  needed 
them  in  just  now,  even  a  Christian  minister  may  use  them." 

Captain  Percy  spoke  rapidly,  only  glancing  at  Mary,  who 
was  already  bending  with  self-forgetful  devotion  above  her  mo 
ther's  pillow,  and  before  Mr.  Sinclair  could  answer  he  was  gone. 

All  was  again  silent  in  that  deserted  suburb,  and  for  long 
hours  nothing  disturbed  the  solemn  stillness  of  the  chamber  of 
death,  save  the  low  sob  or  earnest  prayer  of  parting  love,  though 
sounds  of  tumult  had  not  ceased  wholly  in  the  village.  The  in 
vaders  had  been  interrupted  in  their  work  of  destruction  by  an 
alarm  from  some  of  their  own  party  of  an  approaching  foe. 
They  hurried  to  their  ships  with  mad  impetuosity,  conscious  that 
their  acts  deserved  only  war  to  the  knife,  and  that  they  were  not 
prepared  to  cope  with  any  regular  force.  Only  those,  who,  like 
Captain  Percy,  had  held  themselves  aloof  from  the  brutal  barbar 
ities  which  they  had  striven  vainly  to  prevent,  were  now  com 
posed  enough  to  take  any  steps  for  the  safety  of  others.  To  col 
lect  those  who  had  straggled  off  was  the  first  business,  and  while 
the  recall  was  hastily  beaten,  Captain  Percy,  selecting  a  small 
party  of  men  on  whom  he  could  depend,  went  to  patrol  the  more 
distant  quarters  of  the  town.  Having  seen  no  trace  of  an  enemy 
on  his  way  to  the  parsonage,  he  had  somewhat  hastily  concluded  the 
alarm  to  be  false,  and,  therefore,  did  not  hesitate,  before  returning 
with  his  pistols  to  Mr.  Sinclair,  to  send  forward  his  men  in  charge 
of  those  whom  he  had  found,  promising  to  join  them  before  they 
reached  the  point  of  embarkation.  Without  a  thought  of  dan 
ger  he  traversed  the  silent  and  deserted  streets  on  his  return,  and 
had  arrived  where  a  single  turn  would  bring  him  within  view  of 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  251 

the  rallying  point  of  his  companions  in  arms,  when  the  sound 
that  met  his  practised  ears  told  of  something  more  than  the  hur 
rying  tread  and  mingling  voices  of  soldiers  rapidly  embarking. 
Had  his  men  been  opposed  ?  If  so,  they  should  not  be  without 
a  leader — and  with  that  thought  he  sprang  forward.  He  was  too 
late.  Already  they  had  fought  their  way  through  the  band  of 
villagers,  who,  maddened  by  the  desolation  of  their  homes,  had 
gathered  together  such  weapons  as  they  could,  and  led  on  by  one 
gallant  and  experienced  soldier,  whom  their  burning  houses  had 
lighted  to  their  aid,  were  seeking  to  cut  off  the  retreat  of  some 
amongst  their  invaders,  and  thus  to  revenge  those  whom  they 
had  been  unable  to  protect.  Captain  Percy's  men  had,  as  we 
have  said,  fought  their  way  through  this  band — not  without  loss. 
He  now  stood  alone — one  against  many — with  only  his  good 
sword  to  aid,  for  his  pistols  he  had  given  to  Mr.  Sinclair.  To 
retreat  unobserved  was  impossible,  for  his  own  cry  of  "  for 
ward — forward,  my  men !"  uttered  as  he  rushed  to  the  scene 
of  the  just  decided  contest,  had  betrayed  him — to  fight  against 
such  odds  with  the  faintest  hope  of  success  was  equally  impossi 
ble,  and  to  yield  was  an  alternative  which  there  seemed  to  be  no 
intention  of  offering  him.  In  an  instant  twenty  swords  flashed 
before  his  eyes — twenty  guns  were  pointed  at  his  breast.  That 
instant  had  been  his  last  had  not  Major  Scott,  the  leader  of  whom 
we  have  spoken,  sprung  forward  and  placed  himself  before  him. 
Himself  a  brave  and  generous  soldier,  he  could  not  tamely  wit 
ness  such  butchery,  and  pale  with  the  terror  for  another  which 
he  had  never  felt  for  himself,  he  exclaimed,  "Yield  yourself,  sir, 
quickly — a  moment's  delay,  and  I  cannot  protect  you." 

Captain  Percy's  sword  was  in  the  hand  of  his  noble  foe,  who, 
linking  his  arm  in  his,  turned  to  face  his  own  band,  shouting 


252  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

as  lie  did  so,  "Back — back  on  your  lives — he  is  my  prisoner,  and 
who  touches  him  makes  me  his  enemy." 

The  day  had  passed  with  all  its  exciting  incidents.  The  glow 
of  sunset  had  faded  into  twilight's  soberer  hues,  and  these  had 
deepened  into  the  darkness  of  night.  With  the  darkness,  silence 
had  settled  upon  the  streets  of  Havre  de  Grace.  Those  who  had 
trodden,  for  hours,  with  burning  hearts  around  the  sites  of  their 
desecrated  homes,  retired  to  that  of  some  charitable  and  more 
fortunate  neighbor,  to  seek  such  rest  as  misery  may  hope.  They 
went  with  sullen  as  well  as  sad  brows,  and  as  they  passed  one 
house  in  the  village  they  muttered  "  curses  not  loud,  but  deep." 
This  was  the  house  in  which  Major  Scott  had  found  a  refuge  for 
himself  and  the  prisoner,  whom  all  his  influence  had  scarce  been 
able  to  protect.  To  remove  him  from  Havre  de  Grace  in  the 
light  of  day,  and  under  the  eyes  of  his  infuriated  enemies,  was 
too  hazardous  a  project  to  be  attempted,  and  by  the  advice  of 
some  who  seemed  disposed  to  second  his  efforts  for  his  safety, 
he  had  delayed  his  departure  till  night  should  veil  the  obnoxious 
features  of  the  British  officer. 

At  the  parsonage,  death  had  accomplished  his  work,  and  the 
room  in  which  we  have  already  seen  Mr.  Sinclair,  bears  the  so 
lemn  impress  of  his  presence.  Beside  the  bed  on  which  the  life 
less  limbs  have  been  composed  with  tender  care,  the  pastor 
kneels.  His  prayer  is  no  longer  "  let  this  cup  pass  from  me"- 
he  is  struggling  for  power  to  say,  "  Father,  not  my  will,  but 
Thine  be  done  ! "  In  an  upper  room  lies  Mary  Sinclair.  Tears 
are  falling  fast  as  summer  rain-drops  from  her  closed  eyes,  but 
she  utters  neither  sob  nor  moan,  and  by  the  dim  light  of  the 
shaded  lamp  she  seems  to  the  two  women,  who,  with  well  meant 
but  officious  kindness,  have  insisted  on  watching  with  her 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  253 

through  the  night,  to  sleep.  A  slight  noise  in  the  street  causes 
one  of  these  women  to  start,  and  she  whispers  to  the  other,  "  I 
am  'feard  of  every  thing  to-night — the  least  noise  puts  me  all  of  a 
trimble,  for  I'm  thinking  of  my  Jack.  He's  gone  to  guard  that 
British  soger,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  had  a  skrimmage 
about  him  before  morning." 

"  And  I  must  say,  Miss  Dunham,  if  he  did,  it  would  be  no- 
thin'  more  than  them  deserves  as  would  go  for  to  guard  them 
cruel  British." 

"  But  they  do  say,  Miss  Caxton,  that  this  Capin — for  Jack 
says  he  is  a  Capin — was  better  than  the  rest — that  he  took  the 
part  of  our  people  every  where  when  he  found  there  wasn't  any 
fair  fight,  and  that  he  was  drivin'  his  men  to  the  ships  when  we 
caught  him." 

"  Them  may  believe  that  that  will,  but  for  my  part  I  think 
that  it  must  be  a  poor,  mean  speritted  American  that  will  hold 
guard  over  one  of  them  British " 

"  Not  so  mean  speritted  as  you  think  perhaps,"  said  Jack's 
mother  with  a  flushed  face. 

"Well,  I  must  say,  Miss  Dunham,  I  never  thought  Jack 
would  do  such  a  thing — if  I  had " 

Mrs.  Caxton  stopped  abruptly,  but  her  companion  would  hear 
the  whole — "Well  ma'am,  if  you  had — what  if  you  had?" 

"  Why,  then,  Miss  Dunham,  I  shouldn't  have  been  so  well 
pleased  to  see  him  keepin'  company  with  my  Sarah — but  after 
this,  of  course,  that's  at  an  end." 

"  May  be,  Miss  Caxton,  you  may  think  to-morrow  mornin' 
that  it  would  have  been  just  as  well  to  wait  till  the  night  was 
gone  before  you  said  that — when  you  see  the  British  Capin  hang 
ing  by  the  neck  in  his  fine  regimentals,  and  hear  that  his  guard 


254:  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

were  the  men  that  did  it — as  I  know  they've  sworn  to  do — you 
may  think  after  all  they  an't  so  mean  speritted." 

"  Miss  Dunham !  if  they'll  do  that,  I'll  unsay  every  word  I've 
said,  and  proud  enough  I  would  be  to  call  one  of  'em  my  son- 
in-law — but  now  do  tell  me  all  about  it — she's  asleep  you  see," 
glancing  at  Mary  Sinclair,  "  and  there  an't  no  body  to  hear." 

"  "Why,  there  an't  much  to  tell.  You  see  the  Major  wouldn't 
give  way  no  how  at  all  about  this  here  man — so,  as  they  didn't 
want  to  fight  him,  they  agreed  that  some  of  the  real  true  blues 
who  an't  afeard  of  nothin',  should  seem  to  help  the  Major  and 
persuade  him  to  keep  the  man  here  till  late  in  the  night,  and  that 
they  would  guard  him — but  they  were  to  take  care  to  have  the 
key  of  his  room,  and  when  the  Major  goes  there  he'll  find  it 
empty,  or  at  best  only  a  bloody  corpse  there.  They'll  hang  him 
if  they  can  get  him  out  of  the  window  without  too  much  noise, 
but  if  there's  any  danger  of  his  waking  the  Major  with  his 
screeching,  they'll  stop  his  voice  quick  enough." 

Any  further  conversation  between  these  discreet  watchers 
was  prevented  by  a  sudden  movement  on  the  part  of  Mary  Sin 
clair.  Springing  from  her  bed  she  was  hastening  to  the  door 
when  her  steps  were  arrested. 

"Dear  me,  Miss  Mary!  where  are  you  going?  Now  do  lie 
down  again,  my  dear  young  lady  ! — be  patient — it's  the  Lord's 
will,  you  know."  Such  were  the  remonstrances  of  her  officious 
attendants,  while,  one  on  either  side,  they  strove  to  lead  her  back 
again,  but  Mary  persisted. 

"I  must  go  to  my  father,  Mrs.  Dunham,  pray  let  me  go,  Mrs. 
Caxton,  I  must  speak  to  my  father." 

"  "Well,  then,  my  good  young  lady,  just  put  your  wrapping 
gown  round  you  first,  and  put  your  feet  in  these  slippers." 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  255 

Mary  complied  silently,  and  then  was  suffered  to  proceed. 
Eapidly  she  flew  to  her  father's  room — it  was  unoccupied,  and  a 
glance  at  his  bed  showed  her  that  it  had  not  been  disturbed. 
Mary  was  at  no  loss  to  conjecture  where  she  should  find  her  fa 
ther — but  as  she  approached  that  room  her  steps  grew  slower, 
lighter — she  was  treading  on  holy  ground.  With  difficulty  she 
nerved  herself  to  turn  the  latch  of  the  door,  and  in  an  awed 
whisper  she  entreated  her  father  to  come  to  her.  Mr.  Sinclair 
rose  from  his  knees,  but  he  lingered  a  moment  to  cast  one  look 
on  that  still  lovely  face,  to  press  his  lips  to  that  cold  brow,  and 
then,  reverently  veiling  it,  he  approached  his  daughter. 

"  Come  quickly,  papa ! — not  a  moment  is  to  be  lost  if  you 
would  save  him  from  death,  and  such  a  death — oh,  papa !  papa ! 
— it  may  be  even  now  too  late." 

Her  tale  was  rapidly  told,  and  before  it  was  concluded  Mr. 
Sinclair  was  ready  for  action. 

"  But  the  house,  Mary,  what  house  is  he  in  ?" 

This  Mary  could  not  tell,  but  rapidly  ascending  the  stairs  to 
her  room,  Mr.  Sinclair  obtained  from  the  two  gossips  the  infor 
mation  he  sought.  Startled  as  they  were  by  his  appearance,  they 
reverenced  the  rector  too  much  to  question  his  designs.  Leaving 
his  daughter  to  forget  even  her  own  heavy  sorrow  in  the  immi 
nent  danger  of  another — of  one  whom,  without  any  very  satisfac 
tory  reason,  she  as  well  as  Mr.  Sinclair  had  at  once  concluded  to 
be  her  deliverer  of  the  morning — let  us  follow  his  steps. 

The  church  clock  tolled  eleven  as  Mr.  Sinclair  passed,  and 
the  sound  made  his  fleet  movements  fleeter  still.  Street  after 
street  was  traversed  without  a  voice  or  tread,  save  his  own,  break 
ing  the  stillness  of  the  night.  At  length  he  reached  the  point  of 
the  day's  devastations.  Dismantled  and  roofless  houses,  from 


256  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

which  a  dull  glimmer  showed  that  the  fire  was  not  yet  wholly 
extinguished,  were  seen  rising  here  and  there,  while  in  inter 
vening  spaces  a  charred  and  smouldering  heap  alone  gave  evi 
dence  that  man  had  had  his  dwelling  there.  A  rapid  glance  as 
he  passed  without  a  pause  over  this  ground  told  its  desolation. 
But  see — what  object  meets  his  eye  and  causes  every  nerve  to 
thrill  with  apprehension  ?  From  the  midst  of  one  of  those  black 
ened  heaps  a  single  post  shoots  up — wildly  Mr.  Sinclair  casts  his 
eyes  upward  to  its  summit — gracious  heaven !  is  he  too  late  ? 
To  that  post,  at  about  twenty  feet  from  the  ground,  a  cross  piece 
is  attached,  to  which  a  rope  has  been  secured,  and  from  that  rope 
a  dark  object  hangs  motionless.  Sick  with  horror  he  stops— he 
gazes — no !  it  is  no  illusion — dimly  defined  against  the  star-lit 
sky,  his  eye,  dilated  by  terror,  traces  the  form  of  man,  and  fancy 
supplies  the  traits  of  him  who  stood  before  him  but  a  few  hours 
since  in  all  the  flush  of  manhood — every  movement  replete  with 
energy,  every  look  full  of  proud  resolve  and  generous  feeling. 
With  a  searching  glance  Mr.  Sinclair  looks  around  for  the  mur 
derers — but  they  are  gone — again,  his  strangely  fascinated  eye 
turns  to  that  object  of  horror.  Is  it  the  agitation  of  a  death 
struggle  which  causes  it  now  to  swing  to  and  fro  in  the  dusky 
air  ?  The  thought  that  life  may  not  yet  be  extinct  gives  him 
new  strength — he  runs — he  flies  to  Major  Scott's  lodgings,  for 
from  him  alone  is  he  secure  of  aid  in  his  present  purpose. 

As  Mr.  Sinclair  approached  the  house  in  which  Major  Scott 
had  found  accommodations  for  himself  and  his  prisoner,  he  found 
himself  no  longer  in  darkness.  More  than  one  burning  torch 
threw  a  lurid  light  upon  the  scene,  while  the  men  who  held  them, 
and  perhaps  as  many  as  twenty  more  stood  clustered  together, 
near  the  house,  against  which  some  of  them  were  engaged  in  ele- 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  257 

vating  a  ladder.  In  what  service  that  ladder  might  have  been 
last  used  Mr.  Sinclair  shuddered  to  think.  Perfect  stillness 
reigned  in  this  party.  Their  few  orders  were  given  in  whispers. 

Keeping  cautiously  in  shadow  and  moving  with  stealthy 
steps,  Mr.  Sinclair  passed  them  and  reached  the  house.  Even 
when  there,  he  had  little  hope  of  making  Major  Scott  hear  him 
without  alarming  them,  and  he  could  not  doubt  that  they  would 
do  every  thing  in  their  power  to  frustrate  his  object.  But  Heaven 
favored  his  merciful  design — he  touched  the  door  and  found  it 
ajar.  All  was  dark  as  midnight  within  it,  and  he  had  scarcely 
taken  a  step  when  he  stumbled  against  a  man  whose  voice  sounded 
fiercely  even  in  the  low  whisper  in  which  he  ejaculated,  "D — n 
you.  Do  you  want  to  wake  the  Major?  Don't  you  see  you're 
at  his  room  door  ?" 

"  I  see  now,  but  it  was  so  dark  at  first,"  whispered  Mr.  Sin 
clair  in  reply — adding  with  that  quickness  of  perception  and 
readiness  of  invention  which  danger  supplies  to  some  minds — "I 
have  come  to  watch  him — you  are  wanted." 

The  man  obeyed  the  intimation,  and  he  had  no  sooner  turned 
away  than  Mr.  Sinclair  laid  his  hand  upon  the  latch  of  the  door 
which  had  been  indicated  as  Major  Scott's.  It  yielded  to  his 
touch,  and  with  a  quick  but  cautious  movement  he  entered  the 
room,  and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  Cautious  as  he  was,  the 
soldier's  light  sleep  was  broken,  and  he  exclaimed  hurriedly, 
"Who's  there?" 

Mr.  Sinclair's  communication  was  made  in  a  hasty  whisper, 
and  Major  Scott  only  heard  enough  to  know  that  his  prisoner 
was  in  danger.  Of  Mr.  Sinclair's  worst  suspicions  he  did  not 
even  dream  when  starting  to  his  feet,  half  dressed,  as  he  had 
thrown  himself  on  the  bed,  he  snatched  his  pistols  from  under 
17 


258  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

his  pillow,  and  exclaiming  to  Mr.  Sinclair,  "Follow  me,  sir," 
hurried  to  the  scene  of  action,  the  room  of  Captain  Percy.  Mr. 
Sinclair  followed  with  rapid  steps. 

In  one  respect  the  conspirators  had  been  disappointed — they 
had  not  obtained  the  key  of  Captain  Percy's  room,  for  being 
now  a  prisoner  on  parole,  he  was  subjected  to  no  confinement. 
He  had,  however,  locked  the  door  of  his  room  himself,  to  guard 
against  the  incursion  of  curiosity  rather  than  of  hostility ;  but 
the  lock  was  none  of  the  strongest — a  single  vigorous  application 
of  Major  Scott's  foot  to  the  door  started  the  screws  which  held  it, 
and  a  second  burst  it  off  and  threw  the  entrance  open  before 
him.  As  Mr.  Sinclair  glanced  forward,  "thank  God!"  burst 
from  his  lips  to  the  no  small  surprise  of  Major  Scott,  who  saw 
little  cause  for  gratitude  in  finding  the  object  of  his  solicitude  re 
treating,  sword  in  hand,  toward  the  door,  while  several  athletic 
men,  their  faces  dark  with  hate,  were  already  pressing  danger 
ously  upon  him,  and  others  were  crowding  in  at  the  opened  win 
dow.  The  impetuous  rush  of  his  friends  freed  Captain  Percy 
for  a  moment  from  his  assailants,  but  they  returned  fiercely  to 
the  charge,  too  furious  now  to  postpone  their  revenge  even  to 
their  deference  for  Major  Scott.  Vain  were  Mr.  Sinclair's  en 
treaties  to  be  heard,  till  their  advance  was  stayed  by  the  sight  of 
Major  Scott's  firearms — weapons  with  which  they  had  not  fur 
nished  themselves,  considering  them  useless  in  an  enterprise  to 
whose  complete  success,  silence  was  essential.  Then  first  they  lis 
tened  to  him  as  he  exclaimed,  "This  man  is  innocent,  and  if  you 
shed  his  blood  it  will  call  to  heaven  for  vengeance.  I  saw  him  my 
self  this  day  oppose  himself  to  two  of  his  own  countrymen  to  save 
a  defenceless  woman  from  injury.  That  woman,  was  my  daugh 
ter — some  of  you  know  her  well — ah,  Thompson  !  you  may  well 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  259 

hang  your  head — would  you  slay  the  deliverer  of  her  whose  good 
nursing  saved  the  life  of  your  motherless  child — Wilson,  it  was 
but  last  week  that  she  sat  beside  your  dying  mother,  and  soothed 
and  comforted  her — but  for  this  good  and  brave  man  she  would 
now  have  been  with  her  in  heaven." 

It  was  only  necessary  to  gain  a  hearing  for  such  words  to 
produce  an  influence  on  the  rash,  but  not  cruel  men  whom  Mr. 
Sinclair  addressed,  and  scarcely  half  an  hour  had  passed  since 
their  entrance  into  the  room,  when  they  offered  their  hands  in 
pledge  of  amity  to  him  whose  life  they  had  come  to  seek.  As 
a  proof  of  their  sincerity  they  advised  Major  Scott  no  longer  to 
delay  his  departure  from  the  town,  and  some  of  them  volunteered 
to  accompany  him  as  a  guard  to  his  country-seat. 

"  You  have  saved  my  life,"  said  Captain  Percy,  as  he  shook 
hands  with  Mr.  Sinclair  at  parting. 

"  And  you  have  preserved  for  me  all,  except  my  duties,  for 
which  I  can  now  desire  to  live,"  answered  Mr.  Sinclair  with  emo 
tion  ;  then  turning  to  Major  Scott,  he  added,  "  as  soon  as  you 
consider  it  safe,  you  will,  I  hope,  bring  Captain  Percy  to  visit  us. 
In  the  mean  time,  Captain  Percy,  remember  that  the  stranger 
and  the  prisoner  are  a  clergyman's  especial  care,  and  suffer  your 
self  to  want  nothing  which  I  can  do  for  you.  By  the  by,"  and 
he  took  Major  Scott  aside  and  whispered  him. 

"Give  yourself  no  concern  about  that,  my  dear  sir,"  said 
Major  Scott  in  reply,  "  I  will  attend  to  it." 

He  did  attend  to  it,  and  Captain  Percy's  drafts  on  his  captor 
were  promptly  met,  till  he  was  able  to  open  a  communication 
with  the  British  commander. 

In  as  quiet  a  manner  as  possible  Major  Scott  and  Captain 
Percy  moved  off  from  the  hotel,  and  were  met  in  the  suburbs 


260  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

by  their  volunteer  guard,  while  another  party  of  the  men  whom 
he  had  thus  saved  from  a  great  crime,  attended  Mr.  Sinclair  to 
his  home.  As  he  entered  the  area  of  the  smouldering  ruins  his 
eyes  sought  the  object  lately  viewed  with  so  much  horror.  He 
had  scarcely  glanced  at  it  when  one  of  his  companions  stepped 
up  and  disengaged  a  dark  cloak  from  the  noose  already  prepared 
for  its  expected  victim — "  I  knew  no  one  would  steal  it  from  the 
gallows,"  said  the  man,  as  he  threw  it  over  his  shoulders.  Mr. 
Sinclair  smiled  to  think  how  easily  imagination  had  transformed 
that  formless  object  into  the  fair  proportions  of  a  man. 

Nothing  more  was  heard  of  Captain  Percy  for  weeks  — 
dreary  weeks  to  many  in  Havre  de  Grace — melancholy  weeks  to 
the  inmates  of  the  parsonage,  who  missed  at  every  turn  the  familiar 
step  and  voice  which  had  been  life's  sweetest  music  to  their  hearts. 
At  length  Mr.  Sinclair  received  a  note  from  Major  Scott,  an 
nouncing  his  own  approaching  departure  to  the  army  on  our 
Northern  frontier,  and  requesting  permission  for  Captain  Percy 
and  himself  to  call  on  Mr.  and  Miss  Sinclair.  Permission  was 
given — the  call  was  made,  and  those  who  had  only  met  in  scenes 
of  terror  and  dismay,  amidst  flushing  looks  and  fierce  words,  now 
greeted  each  other  with  gentlest  courtesy  among  sounds  and 
sights  of  peace.  The  call  was  succeeded  by  a  visit  of  some  days, 
and  this  by  one  of  weeks,  till  at  last  it  seemed  to  be  understood 
that  the  parsonage  was  to  be  the  home  of  Captain  Percy  while 
awaiting  the  exchange  which  Major  Scott  had  promised  to  do  all 
in  his  power  to  expedite.  His  society  was  at  the  present  time 
peculiarly  pleasing  to  Mr.  Sinclair,  who  was  diverted  from  his 
own  sad  thoughts  by  the  varied  intelligence  of  the  soldier  and 
traveller  in  many  lands.  Mary  Sinclair  had  been  unable  to  meet 
her  deliverer  without  a  thrill  of  emotion  which  communicated  an 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  261 

air  of  timidity  to  her  manner,  whose  usual  characteristic  was 
modest  self-possession.  Captain  Percy,  at  thirty-five,  had  out 
lived  the  age  of  sudden  and  violent  passion,  but  he  had  not 
outlived  that  of  deep  feeling.  A  soldier  from  boyhood,  he  had 
visited  almost  every  clime,  and  been  familiar  with  the  beauties  of 
almost  every  land,  yet  in  this  lovely  and  gentle  girl,  whom  he 
had  guarded  from  ill,  and  whom  he  now  saw  in  all  the  pure  and 
tender  associations  of  her  home,  blessing  and  blessed,  there  was 
something  which  touched  his  heart  more  deeply  than  he  liked  to 
acknowledge  even  to  himself.  Again  and  again  when  he  saw 
the  soft,  varying  color  that  rose  to  her  cheek  at  his  sudden 
entrance,  or  heard  the  voice  in  which  she  was  addressing  another, 
sink  into  a  more  subdued  tone  as  she  spoke  to  him,  did  he  take 
his  hat  and  wander  forth,  that  he  might  still  in  solitude  his 
bosom's  triumphant  throb,  and  reason  with  himself  on  the  folly 
of  suffering  his  affections  to  be  enthralled  by  one  from  whom,  ere 
another  day  passed,  he  might  be  separated  by  orders  which  would 
send  him  thousands  of  miles  away,  and  detain  him,  perhaps,  for 
years. 

"  If  I  thought  her  feelings  were  really  interested,"  he  would 
say  to  himself  at  other  times — •"  but  nonsense — how  can  I  be  such 
a  coxcomb — all  she  can  feel  for  me  is  gratitude." 

This  last  sentiment  was  echoed  by  Mary  Sinclair,  who,  when 
self-convicted  of  unusual  emotion  in  Captain  Percy's  presence, 
ever  repeated,  "It  is  only  gratitude." 

One  evening  Mr.  Sinclair  retired  after  tea  to  his  study,  leav 
ing  his  daughter  and  his  guest  together.  He  had  not  been  gone 
long  when  a  servant  entered  with  the  letters  and  papers  just 
brought  by  the  semi- weekly  mail,  which  conveyed  to  the  inhab 
itants  of  Havre  de  Grace  the  important  events  then  daily  trans- 


262  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

piling  in  distant  parts  of  the  country.  The  only  letter  was  a 
somewhat  bulky  one  for  Captain  Percy.  Mary  received  the 
papers  and  commenced  reading  them,  that  she  might  leave  her 
companion  at  liberty.  Had  she  been  looking  at  him  she  would 
have  seen  some  surprise,  and  even  a  little  annoyance  in  his  coun 
tenance  as  his  eyes  rested  on  the  seals  of  his  dispatch.  He 
opened  it,  and  the  annoyance  deepened.  He  read  it  more  'than 
once.  Minutes  passed  in  perfect  silence,  and  Mary  began  to 
wonder  what  correspondent  could  so  deeply  interest  him.  A 
heavy  sigh  made  her  look  up.  His  letter  lay  open  on  the  table 
before  him,  but  he  had  evidently  long  ceased  to  read,  for  his  arm 
rested  upon  it,  while  his  eyes  were  fixed  with  an  expression  at 
once  intent  and  mournful  on  her.  Mary  thought  only  of  him  as 
she  said,  "I  hope  you  have  no  painful  intelligence  there,  Captain 
Percy." 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  consider  it  very  joyful  intelligence — I 
am  no  longer  a  prisoner — I  have  been  exchanged,  and" — he  hesi 
tated,  looked  away,  then  added  rapidly — "  I  am  ordered  imme 
diately  to  join  my  regiment  in  Canada." 

A  quick  drawing  of  the  breath,  as  if  from  sudden  pain,  met 
his  ear — his  heart  beat  quickly,  but  he  would  not  embarrass  her 
by  a  glance.  There  was  a  slight  rustling  of  her  dress,  and  turn 
ing  he  saw  that  she  had  risen,  and  with  one  hand  pressed  upon 
the  table  for  support,  was  advancing  to  the  door.  Falteringly, 
one — two — three  steps  were  taken,  and  completely  overcome, 
pale  and  ready  to  faint,  she  sank  upon  a  sofa  near  her.  He  sprang 
forward,  but  she  motioned  him  away,  and  covering  her  face  with 
her  hands,  burst  into  tears — tears  of  shame  as  well  as  of  sorrow. 
For  an  instant  he  stood  irresolute — but  only  for  an  instant,  when 
bending  over  her,  he  whispered,  "  Dare  I  hope  that  you  sympa- 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  263 

thize  with  me,  Mary — that  the  feeling  which  made  even  liberty 
painful  to  me  since  it  separates  me  from  you,  is  not  confined  to 
my  own  bosom  ?" 

Mary's  sobs  ceased — but  she  spoke  not — moved  not. 

"  Answer  me,  dear  Mary — remember  I  have  little  time  to 
woo,  for  my  orders  admit  of  no  delay  in  their  execution — I  must 
leave  you  to-morrow.  Eise  then  above  the  petty  formalities  of 
your  sex,  and  if  I  may  indeed  hope  ever  to  call  you  mine,  let 
me  do  so  this  night — this  hour — your  father  will  not,  I  think, 
fear  to  commit  you  to  my  tenderness." 

Mary  uncovered  her  face,  and  raised  her  eyes  for  an  instant 
to  his,  with  an  expression  so  confiding  that  he  thought  his  suit 
was  won,  and  pressing  her  hand  to  his  lips,  he  said,  "  That  glance 
tells  me  that  you  are  my  own,  Mary.  My  life  shall  prove  my 
gratitude — but  now  I  must  seek  your  father — our  father — will 
you  await  us  here  ?" 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you — sit  down  and  hear  me," 
said  Mary,  in  a  voice  which  she  strove  in  vain  to  raise  above  a 
whisper. 

He  placed  himself  beside  her  on  the  sofa,  still  clasping  the 
hand  he  had  taken,  and  with  a  voice  faltering  and  low  at  first, 
but  gathering  strength  as  she  proceeded,  Mary  resumed : — "  I 
will  not  attempt — I  do  not  wish  to  deny  that  you  have  read  my 
heart  aright — that — that  you  who  saved  me  are — are — "  a  lover's 
ear  alone  could  detect  the  next  words — "  very  dear  to  me — but  I 
cannot — I  think  I  ought  not " 

She  paused,  and  Captain  Percy  said,  "  You  are  not  willing 
to  intrust  your  happiness  to  one  so  lately  known." 

"  Oh,  no !  you  mistake  my  meaning — I  can  have  no  doubt 
of  you — no  fear  for  my  own  happiness — but  my  father — who 


264  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

will  care  for  him  if  I,  his  daughter,  his  only  child,  thus  give 
myself  to  another  at  the  very  time  that  he  needs  me  most." 

"  I  will  not  take  you  from  him — at  least  not  now,  Mary — 
give  me  but  the  right  to  call  you  mine,  and  I  will  leave  you 
here,  in  your  own  sweet  home — not  again,  I  trust,  to  be  visited 
by  war — till  peace  shall  leave  me  at  liberty  to  return  to  England 
with  my  bride — my  wife." 

He  would  have  clasped  her  to  him  as  he  named  her  thus, 
but  Mary  struggled  almost  wildly  to  free  herself,  exclaiming, 
"  Oh !  plead  not  thus  lest  I  forget  my  father  in  myself — my  duty 
in  my  love — the  forgetfulness  would  be  but  short— I  should  be 
unhappy  even  at  your  side,  when  I  thought  of  the  loneliness  of 
heart  and  life  to  which  I  had  condemned  him." 

"  But  he  should  go  with  us — he  should  have  our  home.  It 
will  be  a  simple  home,  Mary — for  though  I  come  of  a  lordly 
race,  I  inherit  not  their  wealth — but  it  will  be  large  enough  for 
our  father." 

"  Kind  and  generous  !"  exclaimed  Mary,  as  she  suffered  her 
fingers  to  clasp  the  hand  in  which  they  had  hitherto  only  rested, 
"  would  that  it  might  be  so — but  that  were  to  ask  of  my  father  a 
sacrifice  greater  even  than  the  surrender  of  his  daughter — the 
sacrifice  of  his  sense  of  duty  to  the  people  who  have  chosen  him 
as  their  spiritual  father — and  to  whom  he  considers  himself 
bound  for  life." 

Captain  Percy  remained  silent  long  after  she  had  ceased  to 
speak,  with  his  eyes  resting  on  her  downcast  face.  At  length,  in 
low,  sad  tones,  he  questioned,  "  And  must  we  part  thus  ?" 

Mary's  lips  moved,  but  she  could  not  speak. 

"I  will  not  ask  you  to  remember  me,  Mary,"  he  resumed, 
"  for  if  forgetfulness  be  possible  to  you,  it  will  perhaps  be  for 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  265 

your  happiness  to  forget — yet — pardon  me  if  I  am  selfish — I 
would  have  some  little  light  amid  the  darkness  gathering  around 
my  heart — may  I  hope  that  had  no  duty  forbidden  you  would 
have  been  mine  ?" 

She  yielded  to  his  clasping  arm,  and  sinking  on  his  bosom, 
murmured  there,  "  Yours — yours  ever  and  only — yours  wholly 
if  I  could  be  yours  holily." 

From  this  interview  Mary  retired  to  her  chamber,  and  Captain 
Percy  sought  his  host  in  his  study.  After  communicating  to 
Mr.  Sinclair  the  contents  of  the  dispatch  he  had  just  received,  he 
continued,  "  I  must  in  consequence  of  these  orders  leave  you  im 
mediately — but  before  I  go  I  have  a  confession  to  make  to  you. 
You  will  not  wonder  that  your  lovely  daughter  should  have  won 
my  heart ;  but  one  hour  since,  I  could  have  said  that  I  had  never 
yielded  for  an  instant  to  that  heart's  suggestions — had  never  con 
sciously  revealed  my  love,  or  endeavored  to  excite  in  her,  feelings 
which,  in  my  position  and  the  present  relations  of  our  respective 
countries,  could  scarcely  fail  to  be  productive  of  pain.  I  can  say 
so  no  longer.  The  moment  of  parting  has  torn  the  veil  from  the 
hearts  of  both — she  loves  me" — there  was  a  joyous  intonation  in 
Captain  Percy's  voice  as  he  pronounced  these  last  words.  He 
was  silent  a  moment  while  Mr.  Sinclair  continued  to  look  gravely 
down — then  suddenly  he  resumed — "Pardon  my  selfishness — I 
forget  all  else  in  the  sweet  thought  that  I  am  loved  by  one  so 
pure,  so  gentle,  so  lovely.  But  though  I  have  dared  without 
your  permission  to  acknowledge  my  own  tenderness,  and  to  draw 
from  her  the  dear  confession  of  her  regard,  there  my  wrong  has 
ended — she  has  assured  me  that  she  could  never  be  happy  sepa 
rated  from  you,  and  that  you  are  wedded  to  your  people."  Mr. 
Sinclair  shaded  with  his  hand  features  quivering  with  emotion. 


266  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

"  At  present,"  continued  Captain  Percy,  "  these  feelings,  which 
are  both  of  them  too  sacred  for  me  to  contest,  place  a  barrier  be 
tween  us,  and  I  have  sought  from  her  no  promise  for  the  future — 
if  she  can  forget  me — "  Captain  Percy  paused  a  moment,  then 
added  abruptly — "may  a  happier  destiny  be  hers  than  I  could 
have  commanded — but,  sir,  the  time  may  come  when  England 
shall  no  longer  need  all  her  soldiers — an  orphan  and  an  only 
child,  I  have  nothing  to  bind  me  to  her  soil — should  I  seek  you 
then  and  find  your  Mary  with  an  unchanged  heart,  will  you  give 
her  to  me  ? — will  you  receive  me  as  a  son  ?" 

u  Under  such  circumstances  I  would  do  so  joyfully,"  Mr. 
Sinclair  replied,  "yet  I  cannot  conceal  from  you  now  that  I 
grieve  to  know  that  my  daughter  must  wear  out  her  youth  in  a 
hope  long  deferred  at  best,  perhaps  never  to  be  realized." 

Both  gentlemen  were  for  a  few  minutes  plunged  in  silent 
thought.  Captain  Percy  rose  from  his  seat — walked  several 
times  across  the  room,  and  then  stopping  before  the  table  at  which 
Mr.  Sinclair  was  seated,  resumed  the  conversation. 

"Had  I  designedly  sought  the  interest  with  which  your 
daughter  has  honored  me,"  he  said,  "  your  words  would  inflict 
on  me  intolerable  self-reproach,  but  I  cannot  blame  myself  for 
not  being  silent  when  silence  would  have  been  a  reproach  to  her 
delicacy  and  a  libel  on  my  own  affection.  Now,  however,  sir,  I 
yield  myself  wholly  to  your  cooler  judgment  and  better  know 
ledge  of  her  nature,  and  I  will  do  whatever  may  in  your  opinion 
conduce  to  her  happiness,  without  respect  to  my  own  feelings. 
If  you  think  that  she  can  forget  the  past,  and  you  desire  that 
she  should" — his  voice  lost  its  firmness  and  he  grasped  with  vio 
lence  the  chair  on  which  he  leaned — "  I  will  do  nothing  to  recall 
it  to  her  memory.  It  is  the  only  amende  I  can  make  for  the 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  267 

shadow  I  have  thrown  upon  her  life — dark  indeed  will  such  a 
resolve  leave  my  own." 

"  It  would  cast  no  ray  of  light  on  hers.  Be  assured  her  love 
is  not  a  thing  to  be  forgotten — it  is  a  part  of  her  life." 

"And  it  shall  be  repaid  with  all  of  mine  which  my  duties  as 
a  soldier  and  subject  leave  at  my  disposal.  Do  not  think  me  al 
together  selfish  when  I  say  that  your  words  have  left  no  place  in 
my  heart  for  any  thing  but  happiness — I  have  but  one  thing  more 
to  ask  of  you — it  is  a  great  favor — inexpressibly  great — but " 

"Nay — nay,"  Mr.  Sinclair  exclaimed,  gathering  his  meaning 
more  from  his  looks  and  manner  than  from  the  words  which  fell 
slowly  from  his  lips — "ask  me  not  so  soon  to  put  the  irrevocable 
seal  upon  a  bond  which  may  be  one  of  misery." 

"  If  your  words  be  true — if  her  love  be  a  part  of  her  life, 
the  irrevocable  seal  has  been  already  affixed  by  Heaven,  and  I 
only  ask  you  to  give  your  sanction  to  it,  that  by  uniting  her  duty 
and  her  love,  you  may  save  her  gentle  spirit  all  contest  with 
itself,  and  give  her  the  fairest  hope  of  future  joy." 

It  was  now  Mr.  Sinclair's  turn  to  rise  and  pace  the  floor  in 
agitated  silence — "  I  know  not  how  to  decide  so  suddenly  on  so 
momentous  a  question,"  he  at  length  exclaimed. 

"Suppose  you  leave  its  decision  to  her  whom  it  most  con 
cerns.  It  is  for  her  happiness  we  are  most  anxious — so  entirely 
is  that  my  object  that  I  would  not  influence  her  determination 
even  by  a  look.  I  will  not  even  ask  to  be  present  when  you 
place  my  proposal  before  her ;  but  I  must  repeat,  sir,  if  you  de 
sign  to  do  it,  there  is  no  time  to  be  lost,  for  I  must  be  on  my  way 
to  Canada  to-morrow." 

"  So  be  it  then — she  shall  choose  for  herself,  and  Heaven  di 
rect  her  choice!" 


268  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

"  Amen  1"  responded  Captain  Percy  as  Mr.  Sinclair  turned 
from  the  door.  He  heard  him  ascend  the  stairs,  and  ask  and  re 
ceive  admission  to  his  daughter's  room.  Then  he  counted  the 
seconds  as  they  grew  into  minutes-^ — the  minutes  as  they  extended 
to  a  quarter  of  an  hour — a  half-hour — and  rolled  slowly  on 
toward  the  hour  which  lacked  but  little  to  its  completion,  when 
his  straining  ear  caught  the  sound  of  an  opening  door,  and  then 
Mr.  Sinclair's  sedate  step  was  heard  slowly  descending  the  stairs 
and  approaching  the  study.  Captain  Percy  met  him  at  the 
door  and  looked  the  inquiry  which  he  could  not  speak.  Mr.  Sin 
clair  replied  to  the  look,  "  She  is  yours !" 

"  May  I  not  see  her  and  receive  such  a  confirmation  of  my 
hopes  from  her  own  lips  ?" 

"  Not  to-night — I  have  persuaded  her  to  retire  at  once — she 
needs  repose,  and  we  must  be  early  astir.  Your  marriage  must 
for  many  reasons  be  kept  secret  at  present,  and  as  I  could  not,  I 
fear,  find  witnesses  here  on  whose  silence  I  could  rely,  we  will 
accompany  you  in  the  morning  to  Major  Scott's,  and  there,  in 
the  presence  of  his  wife  and  sister,  your  vows  shall  receive  the 
sanction  of  the  church.  You  must  have  some  preparation  to 
make,  and  I  will  bid  you  good  night,  for  there  are  certain  legal 
preliminaries  necessary  to  the  validity  of  a  marriage  here,  to 
which  I  must  attend  this  evening — unusual  as  the  hour  is." 

There  was  a  strange  mingling  of  emotion  in  the  hearts  of  the 
lovers  as  they  stood  side  by  side  within  that  room  in  the  gray 
dawn  of  the  next  morning.  In  a  few  hours  they  were  to  part, 
they  knew  not  for  what  distance  of  space  or  duration  of  time.  It 
might  be  that  they  should  never  after  this  morning  look  upon 
each  other's  faces  in  life ;  yet,  ere  they  parted,  there  was  to  be  a 
bond  upon  their  souls  which  should  make  them  ever  present  to 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  269 

each  other,  should  give  them  the  same  interests,  should,  as  it 
were,  mould  their  beings  into  one.  Sacred  bond  of  God's  own 
forming,  which  thus  offers  the  support  of  a  spiritual  and  indisso 
luble  union  amid  the  separations  and  changes  of  this  ever- varying 
life !  No  such  strength  and  peace  are  to  be  found  in  the  frail 
and  casual  ties  for  which  man  in  his  folly  would  exchange  this 
bond  of  Heaven. 

Few  words  were  spoken  during  the  hurried  breakfast  at  the 
parsonage  or  the  drive  to  Major  Scott's,  for  deep  emotion  is  ever 
silent.  Yet  not  for  them  were  the  coy  reserves  often  evinced  by 
hearts  on  the  verge  of  a  life-union — the  faltering  timidity  which 
hesitates  to  lift  the  veil  from  feelings  in  whose  light  existence  is 
thenceforth  to  pass.  They  could  not  forget  that  they  were  to 
part,  and  even  Mary  hesitated  not  to  let  her  lover  read  in  her 
eyes'  shadowy  depths  the  tenderness  which  might  soothe  the 
parting  pang,  and  whose  memory  might  brighten  the  hours  of 
separation. 

"Why  should  we  linger  on  a  scene  which  each  heart  can  depict 
for  itself?  With  solemn  tenderness  the  father  pronounced  the 
words  which  transferred  to  another  the  right  to  his  own  earthly 
sanctuary — the  heart  of  his  daughter — and  committed  to  another's 
keeping — his  last  and  brightest  earthly  treasure.  That  treasure 
was  soon,  however,  returned,  for  a  time,  to  his  care.  The  vows 
of  the  marriage  rite  had  scarcely  been  uttered,  when  with  one 
long  clasp — one  whispered  word — one  lingering  look — the  disci 
plined  soldier  turned  from  his  newly  found  joy  to  his  duties. 
Never  had  Mary  seemed  more  lovely  in  his  eyes  or  her  father's 
than  in  that  moment,  when  with  quivering  lips,  eyes  "heavy 
with  unshed  tears,"  and  cheeks  white  with  anguish,  she  yet 
smiled  upon  him  to  the  last.  Nor  did  her  heroic  self-control 


270  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

cease  when  lie  was  gone.  Her  father  was  still  there,  and  for  him 
she  endured  and  was  silent.  Only  by  her  languid  movements 
and  fading  color  did  he  learn  the  bitterness  of  her  soul  through 
the  weary  months  of  her  sorrow.  Weary  months  were  they 
indeed ! 

One  letter  she  received  from  Captain  Percy,  written  before  he 
had  passed  beyond  the  limits  of  the  United  States.  It  breathed 
the  very  soul  of  tenderness.  "My  wife!"  he  wrote,  "what  joy 
is  summed  in  that  little  word  —  what  faith  in  the  present — 
what  promise  for  the  future !  I  find  myself  often  repeating  it 
again  and  again  with  a  lingering  cadence,  while  your  gentle  eyes 
seem  smiling  at  my  folly."  Long,  long  did  Mary  wear  this  letter 
next  her  heart,  and  still  no  other  came  to  take  its  place. 

They  had  parted  in  1813,  just  as  the  falling  leaves  came  to 
herald  the  approach  of  winter.  That  winter  passed  with  Mary 
in  vain  longing  and  vainer  hopes.  Spring  again  clothed  her 
home  with  beauty,  but  there  came  no  spring  to  her  heart.  Sum 
mer  brought  joy  and  gladness  to  the  earth,  but  not  to  her,  and 
another  autumn  closed  over  her  in  anxious  suspense.  There 
were  moments  when  she  could  almost  have  prayed  to  have  that 
dread  silence  broken  even  by  a  voice  from  the  tomb — other  times 
in  which  she  threw  herself  on  her  knees  in  thankfulness  that  she 
could  yet  hope.  From  Major  Scott  she  had  heard  that  Captain 
Percy's  regiment  had  been  sent  to  the  South,  but  of  him  indi 
vidually  even  Major  Scott  knew  nothing.  At  length  came  the 
eighth  of  January,  that  day  of  vain  triumph  on  which  thousands 
fell  in  the  contest  for  rights  already  lost  or  won — the  treaty  of 
peace  having  been  signed  at  Ghent  on  the  twenty-fourth  of  the 
preceding  month.  Forgetful  of  this  useless  hecatomb  at  war's 
relentless  shrine,  America  echoed  the  gratulations  of  the  victors 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  271 

which  fell  with  scathing  power  on  the  heart  of  the  trembling 
Mary.  How  could  she  hope  that  he,  the  fearless  soldier,  had 
escaped  this  scene  of  slaughter !  If  he  had,  surely  he  would 
now  find  some  way  to  inform  her  of  his  safety,  but  weeks  passed 
on,  and  passed  still  in  silence. 

During  this  long  period  of  suspense,  no  doubt  of  the  tender 
ness  and  truth  of  him  she  loved  had  ever  sullied  Mary's  faith. 
Mr.  Sinclair  was  not  always  thus  confiding,  and  once,  on  seeing 
the  deadly  pallor  that  overspread  her  face  on  hearing  the  an 
nouncement  of  "  no  letters" — he  uttered  words  of  keen  reproach 
on  him  who  could  so  wrong  her  gentle  heart. 

"  Oh,  father !"  Mary  exclaimed,  "  speak  not  thus — be  assured 
it  is  not  his  fault — remember  that  no  license  could  tempt  him  to 
wrong  the  defenceless — think  how  honorable  he  was  in  suppress 
ing  his  own  feelings  lest  their  avowal  should  bring  sorrow  on  us 
— and  when  my  self-betrayal  unsealed  his  lips,  how  delicate  to 
me,  how  generous  to  you  was  his  conduct — and  who  but  he  could 
have  been  so  rigid  in  his  observance  of  a  soldier's  duty,  yet  so 
inexpressibly  tender  as  a  man !  I  loved  him  because  I  saw  him 
thus  true  and  noble — and  having  seen  him  thus  how  can  I  doubt 
him  ?  He  may  be  no  longer  on  earth,  but  wherever  he  is,  he  is 
my  true  and  noble  husband,  and  you  will  not  again  distress  me, 
dear  father,  by  speaking  as  if  you  doubted  it." 

"  Never,"  said  Mr.  Sinclair  emphatically,  and  he  never  did, 
though  he  saw  her  form  grow  thinner,  and  her  cheek  paler  every 
day,  and  before'  the  winter  was  gone  heard  that  deep,  hollow 
cough  from  her,  which  has  so  often  sounded  the  knell  of  hope  to 
the  anxious  heart.  With  the  coming  on  of  summer  this  cough 
passed  away,  but  Mary  was  oppressed  by  great  feebleness  and 
languor — scarcely  less  fatal  symptoms.  Still  she  omitted  none  of 


272  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

those  cares  essential  to  her  father's  comfort — while  to  the  poor, 
the  sick,  the  sorrowing,  she  was  more  than  ever  an  angel  of 
mercy.  With  feeble  steps  and  slow  she  still  walked  her  accus 
tomed  round  of  charity,  and  thus  living  for  duty  she  lived  for 
God,  and  had  His  peace  shed  abroad  in  her  heart,  even  while 
sorrow  was  wearing  away  the  springs  of  her  life.  She  loved  to 
sit  alone  and  send  her  thoughts  forward  to  the  future — not  of 
this  life,  but  of  that  higher  life  in  which  there  shall  be  no  shadow 
on  the  brightness  of  our  joy — where  love  shall  be  without  fear 
• — no  war  shall  desolate — no  opposing  duty  shall  separate — no 
death  shall  place  its  stony  barrier  between  loving  hearts.  With 
a  mind  thus  occupied,  she  wandered  one  day,  in  the  latter  part 
of  August,  through  the  garden  of  the  parsonage  and  the  yard' 
immediately  surrounding  the  church  into  the  little  inclosure  be 
yond,  within  which  was  the  green  and  flowery  knoll  that  marked 
her  mother's  last  resting-place.  As  she  turned  again  toward  her 
tome  the  sound  of  a  carriage  driven  rapidly  by  caused  her  to 
look  toward  the  road  which  lay  about  one  hundred  yards  distant. 
The  carriage  rushed  by,  and  she  caught  but  a  glimpse  of  a  gen 
tleman  leaning  from  its  window.  In  another  moment  a  grove 
of  trees  had  hidden  both  the  carriage  and  its  occupant  from  her 
sight — yet  that  glimpse  had  sent  a  thrill  through  her  frame — a 
mist  passed  over  her  eyes,  and  with  eager,  trembling  steps,  she 
proceeded  on  her  way.  As  she  reached  the  garden,  she  thought 
she  saw  her  father  approaching  it  from  the  house,  but  her  path 
led  through  a  summer-house,  and  when  she  had  passed  through 
it  he  was  no  longer  visible.  Every  thing  in  the  house  wore  its 
usual  air  of  quietness  on  her  entrance,  and  with  a  feeling  of  dis 
appointment,  for  which  she  could  not  rationally  account,  she 
turned  her  steps  toward  her  father's  study.  As  she  drew  near 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  273 

the  door  she  heard  his  voice — the  words  "  I  dread  to  tell  her," 
met  her  ear  and  made  her  heart  stand  still.  One  step  more  and 
she  was  at  the  door — she  looked  eagerly  forward,  and  with  a 
glad  cry  sprang  into  the  extended  arms  of  her  husband. 

It  was  long  before  any  of  the  party  were  sufficiently  com 
posed  for  conversation.  When  that  time  came,  Captain  or  rather 
Colonel  Percy  heard  with  surprise  that  no  letters  had  been  re 
ceived  from  him  since  his  joining  the  army  in  Canada.  He  had 
written  often,  but  had  been  obliged  to  send  his  letters  to  some 
distant  post-town  by  his  own  servant.  As  he  had  declined  ac 
companying  Colonel  Percy  to  America,  there  was  reason  to  sup 
pose  that  he  had  suspected  the  character  of  the  correspondence, 
perhaps  had  acquainted  himself  fully  with  the  contents  of  the 
letters,  and  had  taken  effectual  means  to  prevent  their  reaching 
their  destination,  with  the  hope  of  thus  completely  removing 
from  Colonel  Percy's  mind  every  inducement  to  return  to  this 
country.  Having  received  a  disabling  though  not  dangerous 
wound  at  the  battle  of  New  Orleans,  Colonel  then  Major  Percy 
was  sent  home  with  dispatches,  and  was  immediately  ordered 
to  join  the  army  under  Lord  Wellington,  then  rapidly  hasten 
ing  to  repel  the  attempt  of  the  prisoner  of  Elba  to  re-establish 
himself  on  the  throne  of  France.  From  this  period  till  the 
battle  of  Waterloo  all  private  concerns  were  merged  in  the  in 
terest  and  the  hurry  of  great  public  events.  In  that  battle 
Major  Percy  was  again  slightly  wounded.  Hig  distinguished 
bravery  was  rewarded  by  his  being  made  again  the  bearer  of 
dispatches  to  England.  As  it  was  evident  to  all  that  the  struggle 
which  had  called  the  whole  force  of  Britain  into  the  field  was 
now  at  an  end,  he  had  no  hesitation  in  asking  and  no  difficulty 
18 


27-i  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

in  obtaining  leave  of  absence  from  the  Commander-in-chief,  and 
had  lost  no  time  in  embarking  for  America. 

"As  a  consequence  of  peace,"  said  Colonel  Percy  in  con 
clusion,  "  a  large  part  of  our  force  will  be  disbanded  and  many 
officers  put  on  half-pay.  A  friend  who  is  very  influential  at 
head-quarters  has  undertaken  to  secure  me  a  place  on  the  list  of 
these  last — henceforth,  dear  Mary,  your  home  is  mine,"  said 
Colonel  Percy  in  conclusion. 

"  And  did  you  never  doubt  me  during  all  this  long  silence?" 
he  asked  of  his  happy  wife  a  few  days  after  his  return. 

"Never,"  said  Mary  firmly,  and  then  added  in  a  more  playful 
manner — "if  I  should  step  into  the  confessor's  chair,  can  you 
answer  as  boldly  ?" 

"  I  can,  Mary — though  I  never  received  a  line  from  you,  it 
never  occurred  to  me  to  fear  any  change  in  your  affection.  Our 
marriage  had  placed  on  it  the  seal  of  duty,  and  your  conduct  in 
relation  to  vour  father  had  shown  me  that  this  seal  you  could 

*/  »/ 

not  easily  break." 

"  Then  you  did  not  love  me  less  for  not  yielding  every  other 
consideration  to  the  gratification  of  your  wishes  ?"  said  Mary, 
endeavoring  to  speak  lightly,  but  betraying  deeper  feeling  by 
the  slight  tremor  in  her  voice,  and  the  quick  blush  mantling  in 
her  cheek. 

"Love  you  less!"  exclaimed  Colonel  Percy  warmly — "my 
love  had  been  little  worthy  your  acceptance,  dearest,  had  it  been 
lessened  by  seeing  that  your  principles  were  paramount  even 
to  your  affections.  Happy  would  it  be  for  all  your  sex,  Mary, 
did  they  recognize  as  the  only  test  of  a  true  and  noble  love, 
that  it  increases  with  the  increase  of  esteem,  and  finds  more 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  275 

pleasure  in  the  excellence  of  its  object  than  in  its  own  selfish 
triumphs." 

Ere  the  winter  of  1815  had  set  in,  Mary's  rounded  form  and 
blooming  cheek  relieved  all  Mr.  Sinclair's  apprehension  of  her 
consumptive  tendencies,  and  proved  that  her  love  was  indeed,  as 
he  had  said,  "a  part  of  her  life." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  New-Year's  day — the  day  after  which  the  year  is  no  longer 
new — is  come  and  gone,  and  while  sitting  here  to  record  its 
events  before  I  sleep,  I  look  back  at  it  with  pleasure,  chastened 
by  such  thoughts  as  the  young  seldom  have.  I  believe  of  all 
such  eras  the  aged  may  say  as  the  poet  says  of  his  birthday : 

"  what  a  different  sound 
That  word  had  in  my  younger  years, 
And  every  time  the  chain  comes  round, 
Less  and  less  bright  the  link  appears." 

To  all,  these  eras  mark  their  progress  on  the  journey  of  life ; 
but  to  the  young  they  are  bright  with  the  promise  of  a  happier 
future ;  the  aged,  they  direct  to  the  grave  of  the  buried  past,  and 
they  read  on  them  the  inscription  so  often  found  on  the  Eoman 
monumental  stones,  "  Siste  Viator."  Travellers  are  we  from 
time  to  eternity,  and  it  is  well  that  we  should  meet  with  these 
imperative  calls  to  stand  and  consider.  Cheered  by  the  Chris 
tian's  hope,  we  can  stand;  we  can  look  steadily  on  the  past, 
count  the  lengthening  line  of  these  memorials  of  our  dead 
years,  and  feel  that  but  few  more  probably  lie  between  us  and 
the  river  of  death,  yet,  strong  in  the  might  of  Death's  great 
Conqueror,  "  bate  no  jot  of  heart  or  hope." 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  277 

These  are  grave  though  not  sad  thoughts;  too  grave  to 
mingle  readily  with  the  record  of  mirthful  scenes,  however  inno 
cent  have  been  the  mirth.  I  must,  therefore,  lay  aside  my  pen, 
and  reserve  the  description  of  our  New- Year  for  to-morrow. 

Our  New- Year  opened  with  a  cold  and  cloudless  morning, 
and  our  party  met  at  breakfast  with  faces  as  bright  as  the  sun. 
Gifts  were  exchanged  between  the  parents  and  children,  the 
brothers  and  sisters — gifts,  trifling  in  themselves,  but  dear  from 
their  association  with  the  cherished  giver.  It  was  a  pretty  sight 
to  see  the  venerable  parents  receiving  from  their  children  testi 
monies  of  that  affectionate  consideration  which  the  care  and  ten 
derness  of  years  had  so  well  deserved.  Tears  were  on  Mrs. 
Donaldson's  cheeks,  and  even  the  Colonel's  eyes  glistened  as  they 
clasped  one  after  another  of  their  children  to  their  hearts,  and 
invoked  on  them  the  blessing  of  Heaven.  From  this  scene  Mr. 
Arlington  and  I  had  stood  aloof,  silent,  but  interested  specta 
tors.  As  the  excitement  of  the  principal  actors  subsided,  we 
approached  and  tendered  our  hearty  congratulations,  and  re 
ceived  equally  hearty  demonstrations  of  friendship.  Neither 
had  Aunt  Nancy  been  altogether  forgotten  in  the  mementos  of 
affection  provided  for  the  day,  and  I  thought  Mr.  Arlington 
looked  a  little  envious  as  Annie,  with  a  kiss,  threw  around  my 
neck  a  chain  woven  of  her  own  hair,  and  suspended  to  it  the 
eye-glass  which  I  always  wore.  I  do  not  know  but  his  envy 
may  have  been  somewhat  allayed  by  a  very  handsomely  deco 
rated  copy  of  an  English  work  on  sporting,  with  which  Col. 
Donaldson  presented  him.  He  had  scarcely  found  time,  how 
ever,  to  admire  it,  when  all  attention  was  attracted  to  Philip 
Donaldson,  who  entered  with  a  servant  bearing  the  mysterious 
box  to  which  I  have  before  alluded. 


278  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

"  There  is  my  New- Year  present  to  you,  Annie, "  lie  said,  as 
he  began  to  open  it.  All  drew  near  and  looked  on  with  interest, 
yet  few  felt  much  surprise  when,  the  cover  being  removed,  a 
Greek  dress  was  disclosed.  From  the  rich  head-dress  of  silvered 
muslin  to  the  embroidered  slipper,  all  was  complete.  Annie 
looked  on  with  a  smile  as  he  displayed  piece  after  piece — yet  her 
smile  wore  some  appearance  of  constraint;  and  when  Philip, 
drawing  her  to  him,  kissed  her  cheek  and  said,  "  Not  a  word  for 
me,  Annie !"  with  her  thanks  were  mingled  some  hesitating  ex 
pressions  of  apprehension  that  this  dress  would  be  very  conspic 
uous,  concluding  with  the  timid  question,  "  Do  you  really  wish 
me  to  wear  it  this  evening,  Philip  ?" 

"Certainly,  Annie.  It  was  in  order  to  show  you  in  this 
dress  that  I  proposed  fancy  dresses  for  this  evening ;  you  will 
not  disappoint  me?" 

"  Certainly  not — at  least  not  willingly — I  will  wear  it.  If 
I  wear  it  ungracefully  you  will  forgive  me  ?" 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  that,"  said  Philip,  as  he  glanced  at  her 
glowing  face  with  a  brother's  gratified  pride. 

Miss  Donaldson  advised  that  Annie  should  try  on  the  dress 
at  once,  as  she  prudently  suggested  it  might  require  some  alter 
ation. 

"Come  with  me,  Aunt  Nancy,"  said  Annie,  as  she  left  the 
room  to  comply  with  this  advice. 

"  Come  back  here  and  let  us  see  you,  Annie,  when  you  have 
put  it  on,"  said  Col.  Donaldson. 

Annie  would  have  passed  from  the  room  without  an  answer, 
evading  the  compliance  which  she  could  not  refuse,  but  the  Colo 
nel  called  her  back  and  did  not  dismiss  her  till  assured  that  the 
9 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  279 

request,  which  he  knew  would  be  regarded  as  a  command,  had 
been  heard. 

The  dress  needed  no  alteration.  We  afterward  found  that 
Philip  had  sent  his  friend  a  measure  procured  from  Annie's 
maid,  and  the  fit  was  perfect.  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  Annie, 
as  she  saw  the  beautiful  figure  reflected  in  her  glass,  regretted 
the  command  which  compelled  her  to  show  herself  to  the  party 
awaiting  her  in  the  library,  to  which  we  had  withdrawn  from 
the  breakfasting  room,  that  we  might  not  interfere  with  the 
household  operations,  of  which  the  latter  was,  at  this  hour,  the 
scene.  Yet  it  was  with  a  little  coy  delay  and  blushing  timidity 
that  she,  at  length,  suffered  me  to  lead  her  there. 

"  Beautiful," — "  I  never  saw  her  look  so  well," — "  I  knew  it 
would  become  her,"  were  the  exclamations  that  greeted  her,  on 
her  entrance,  deepening  the  flush  upon  her  cheek,  and  calling 
up  a  brighter  smile  to  her  lips.  Mr.  Arlington  alone  was  silent, 
but  his  soul  was  in  his  eyes,  and  they  spoke  an  admiration  com 
pared  to  which  the  words  of  others  were  tame. 

"  My  dear  Annie,"  said  her  mother,  as  she  gazed  delightedly 
upon  her,  "how  I  wish  I  had  a  likeness  of  you  in  that  dress — 
you  do  look  so  remarkably  well  in  it." 

Mr.  Arlington  stepped  forward.  "Would  you  permit  me — " 
to  Mrs.  Donaldson — "  Would  you  do  me  the  favor — "  to  Annie 
— "  Might  I  be  allowed —  '  with  a  glance  at  the  Colonel,  "  to 
gratify  Mrs.  Donaldson's  wish.  It  should  be  my  New-Year  offer 
ing.  I  would  ask  only  an  hour  of  your  time — "  deprecatingly 
to  Annie.  "  That  would  give  me  an  outline  which  I  could  fill 
up  without  troubling  you." 

Mr.  Arlington  was  so  earnest,  and  Mrs.  Donaldson  so  grate 
fully  pleased,  that  if  Annie  had  any  objections,  they  were  com- 


280  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

pletely  overborne.  Mr.  Arlington  produced  his  sketching  mate 
rials  and  disposed  his  subject  and  his  light,  and  then  intimated 
so  plainly  that  the  consciousness  of  the  observation  of  others 
would  be  fatal  to  his  success,  that  we  withdrew,  leaving  only 
Philip  with  a  book  in  a  distant  corner  "  to  play  propriety,"  as  he 
whispered  to  me  on  passing,  with  a  mischievous  glance  at  the 
blushing  Annie. 

And  now  the  reader  doubtless  thinks,  that  in  the  engraving 
immediately  preceding  this  chapter,  he  has  a  copy  of  the  sketch 
made  on  this  New- Year  morning.  In  this,  however,  he  deceives 
himself,  for  the  work  of  this  morning  amounted  to  the  merest 
and  most  unfinished  outline,  which  would  have  stood  for  Zu- 
leika  as  well  as  for  Annie  Donaldson.  Yet  instead  of  one  hour, 
Annie  generously  allowed  Mr.  Arlington  nearly  three.  How 
he  was  occupied  during  all  this  time,  I  cannot  tell,  though  that 
he  did  not  spend  all  of  it  in  drawing  I  had  ocular  demonstra 
tion. 

Nearly  three  hours,  as  I  have  said,  had  passed  since  we  had 
left  the  library,  when,  looking  from  my  window,  I  saw  Philip 
returning  to  the  house  on  horseback.  Having  left  in  the  library 
a  book  in  which  I  was  much  interested,  I  had  been  waiting  some 
what  impatiently  for  Annie's  appearance,  to  satisfy  me  that  I 
might  without  intrusion  return  there  for  it.  I  now  concluded, 
somewhat  too  hastily,  as  it  afterwards  proved,  from  seeing  Philip 
abroad,  that  the  sitting  was  at  an  end,  and  accordingly  went  for 
my  book.  I  entered  noiselessly,  I  suppose — I  am  usually  quiet 
in  my  movements — by  a  door  directly  opposite  to  the  seat  which 
Mr.  Arlington  had  arranged  for  himself,  and  behind  the  sofa  on 
which,  at  his  desire,  Annie  had  been  seated  when  I  left  her. 
There  still  was  Mr.  Arlington's  seat,  and  before  it  a  table  with 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  281 

the  drawing  materials  and  unfinished  sketch,  but  Mr.  Arlington 
was  on  the  sofa  beside  Annie.  He  was  speaking,  but  in  tones  so 
low,  that  even  had  I  wished  it,  I  could  not  have  heard  him,  but 
the  few  seconds  for  which  surprise  kept  me  chained  to  the  spot, 
were  sufficient  to  suggest  the  subject  of  those  murmured  wrords. 
The  reader  will  probably  conjecture  that  subject  without  aid 
from  me,  when  I  tell  him  what  I  saw.  Of  Annie,  as  she  sat  with 
her  back  to  me,  I  could  only  see  the  drooping  head  and  one 
crimson  ear  and  cheek ;  Mr.  Arlington's  face  was  turned  to  her, 
and  was  glowing  with  joy,  and  as  it  seemed  to  me  with  triumph. 
Before  I  had  turned  away,  he  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips.  I  saw 
that  it  rested  unresistingly  in  his  clasp ;  and  gliding  through  the 
door  by  which  I  stood,  I  closed  it  softly  and  left  them  uncon 
scious  of  my  presence. 

The  invitations  had  been  given  for  the  early  hour  of  half- 
past  seven,  and  at  seven,  by  previous  arrangement,  our  own 
party  collected  in  the  library  dressed  for  the  evening.  There 
stood  Col.  Donaldson  in  the  uniform  of  a  continental  major, 
gallantly  attending  a  lady  whose  fine  dark  eyes  and  sweet  smile 
revealed  Mrs.  Seagrove,  notwithstanding  the  crimped  and  pow 
dered  hair,  patched  face,  hoop,  furbelows,  and  farthingale,  which 
would  have  carried  us  back  to  the  days  of  Queen  Anne.  Mrs. 
Dudley,  in  the  same  costume,  was  attended  by  Philip  Donald 
son,  who  looked  a  perfect  gentleman  of  the  Sir  Charles  Gran- 
dison  style  in  his  full  dress,  with  bag-wrig  and  sword.  Arthur 
Donaldson,  in  the  graceful  and  becoming  costume  of  the  gallant 
Hotspur,  was  seated  with  his  Kate  by  his  side,  and  if  Kate  Percy 
looked  but  half  as  lovely  in  her  bridal  array  as  did  her  present 
representative,  she  was  well  worthy  a  hero's  homage.  But  in 
the  background,  evidently  shrinking  from  observation,  stood  a 


282  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

figure  more  interesting  to  me  than  all  these — it  was  our  "  sweet 
Annie"  as  Zuleika — our  Bride,  not  of  Abydos — leaning  on  the 
arm  of  a  Selim  habited  in  a  costume  as  correct  and  as  magnifi 
cent  as  her  own,  yet  who  could  scarcely  be  said  to  look  the  char 
acter  well — the  open  brow  of  Mr.  Arlington,  where  lofty  and 
serene  thought  seemed  to  have  fixed  its  throne,  and  his  eyes 
bright  with  present  enjoyment  and  future  hope,  bearing  little 
resemblance  to  our  imaginations  of  the  wronged  and  desperate 
Selim,  whose  very  joy  seemed  but  a  lightning  flash,  lending  in- 
tenser  darkness  to  the  .night  of  his  despair.  I  was  the  last  to 
enter  the  room,  and  as  I  approached  Mr.  Arlington,  he  presented 
me  with  a  very  beautiful  bouquet.  I  found  afterwards  that  he 
had  made  the  same  graceful  offering  to  each  of  the  ladies  at  the 
Manor,  having  received  them  from  the  city,  to  which  he  had  sent 
for  his  Greek  dress  and  Philip's  wig.  Put  up  in  the  ingenious 
cases  now  used  for  this  purpose,  they  had  come  looking  as  freshly 
as  if  that  moment  plucked.  The  bouquet  appropriated  to  Annie 
differed  from  all  the  others.  It  was  composed  of  white  camelias, 
moss-rose  buds  and  violets.  As  I  was  admiring  it,  Annie  pointed 
to  one  of  the  rose-buds  as  being  particularly  perfect  in  its  forma 
tion  and  beautiful  in  its  delicate  shading.  It  was  beautiful,  but 
my  attention  was  more  attracted  by  the  sparkling  of  a  diamond 
ring  I  had  never  before  seen  upon  her  finger.  The  diamond  was 
unusually  large,  the  antique  setting  tasteful.  With  an  inconsid- 
eration  of  which  I  flatter  myself  I  am  not  often  guilty,  I  ex 
claimed  in  surprised  admiration,  "  Why,  Annie,  where  did  you 
get  that  beautiful  ring?" 

The  sudden  withdrawing  of  the  little  hand,  the  quick  flush 
ing  of  cheek,  neck,  brow,  told  the  tale  at  once — a  tale  corrobo 
rated  by  the  smiling  glance  which  met  mine  as  it  was  turned  for 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  283 

a  moment  on  Mr.  Arlington.  Her  confusion  was  beautiful,  but 
lie  was  too  generous  to  enjoy  it,  and  strove  to  bring  me  back  to 
the  flowers. 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  some  beautiful  verses,  translated  from 
the  German,  by  Edward  Everett  I  believe,  entitled  'The  Flower 
Angels  ?'  "  he  asked. 

"  I  never  did—  can  you  repeat  them  ?" 

He  answered  by  immediately  reciting  the  verses  which  I  here 
give  to  the  reader. 


flmn 


As  delicate  forms  as  is  thine,  my  love, 
And  beauty  like  thine,  have  the  angels  above; 
Yet  men  cannot  see  them,  tho'  often  they  come 
On  visits  to  earth  from  their  native  home. 

Thou  ne'er  wilt  behold  them,  but  if  thou  wouldst  know" 
The  houses  in  which,  when  they  wander  below, 
The  angels  are  fondest  of  passing  their  hours, 
I'll  tell  thee,  fair  lady  —  they  dwell  in  the  flowers. 

Each  flower  as  it  blossoms,  expands  to  a  tent, 

For  the  house  of  a  visiting  angel  meant  ; 

From  his  flight  o'er  the  earth  he  may  there  find  repose, 

Till  again  to  the  vast  tent  of  Heaven  he  goes. 

And  this  angel  his  dwelling-place  keeps  in  repair, 
As  every  good  man  of  his  dwelling  takes  care  ; 
All  around  he  adorns  it,  and  paints  it  well, 
And  much  he's  delighted  within  it  to  dwell. 


284  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

True  sunshine  of  gold,  from  the  orb  of  day, 
He  borrows,  his  roof  with  its  light  to  inlay ; 
All  the  hues  of  each  season  to  him  he  calls, 
And  with  them  he  tinges  his  chamber  walls. 

The  bread  angels  eat,  from  the  flower's  fine  meal 
He  bakes,  so  that  hunger  he  never  can  feel ; 
He  brews  from  the  dew-drop  a  drink  fresh  and  good, 
And  every  thing  does  which  a  good  angel  should. 

And  greatly  the  flowers,  as  they  blossom,  rejoice 
That  they  are  the  home  of  the  angels'  choice ; 
And  again  when  to  heaven  the  angel  ascends, 
The  flower  falls  asunder,  the  stalk  droops  and  bends. 

If  tliou,  my  dear  lady,  in  truth  art  inclined, 
The  spirits  of  Heaven  beside  thee  to  find, 
Reflect  on  the  flowers  and  love  them  moreover, 
And  angels  will  always  around  thee  hover. 

A  flower  do  but  plant  near  thy  window-glass, 
And  thro'  it  no  spirit  of  evil  can  pass ; 
When  thou  goest  abroad,  on  thy  bosom  wear 
A  nosegay,  and  trust  me  an  angel  is  near. 

Do  but  water  the  lilies  at  break  of  day, 

For  the  hours  of  the  morn  thou'lt  be  whiter  than  they ; 

Let  a  rose  round  thy  bed  night-sentry  keep, 

And  angels  will  rock  thee  on  roses  to  sleep. 

No  frightful  dreams  can  approach  thy  bed, 
For  around  thee  an  angel  his  watch  will  have  spread ; 
And  whatever  visions  thy  Guardian,  to  thee, 
Permits  to  come  in,  very  good  ones  will  be. 


EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.  285 

When  thus  thou  art  kept  by  a  heavenly  spell, 

Should' st  thou  now  and  then  dream  that  I  love  thee  right  well ; 

Be  sure  that  with  fervor  and  truth  I  adore  thee, 

Or  an  angel  had  ne'er  set  mine  image  before  thee. 

The  visitors  soon  began  to  arrive.  There  were  among  them 
some  amusing  characters,  so  well  supported  as  to  give  rise  during 
the  evening  to  many  entertaining  scenes,  but  to  me  this  was  the 
group  and  this  the  incident  of  the  evening.  Not  a  group  or  an 
incident  for  prurient  curiosity  or  frivolous  jest,  but  for  an  earnest 
and  reverent  recognition  of  that  beautiful  law  imposed  on  Na 
ture  by  her  Great  Author,  by  which  the  feeble  delight  in  re 
ceiving,  and  the  strong  in  giving  support — that  law  by  which  a 
pure  and  self-abnegating  affection  is  made  the  source  of  life  in 
all  its  commingling  relations — of  its  duties  and  its  sympathies — 
its  joys  and  its  sorrows — of  its  severest  probation  and  its  loftiest 
development. 

It  was  in  the  solemnity  of  spirit,  engendered  by  thoughts 
like  these  that  I  stood  at  the  window  of  my  room,  looking  forth 
upon  the  still  and  moonlit  night,  long  after  our  friends  had  left 
us.  My  door  opened  softly  and  Annie  glided  in,  and  ere  I  was 
aware  of  her  presence,  was  standing  beside  me  with  her  head 
resting  on  my  shoulder.  A  tear  was  on  the  cheek  to  which  I 
pressed  my  lips.  A  few  whispered  words  told  me  whence  the 
ring  came — but  not  for  the  public  are  the  pure,  guileless  confi 
dences  of  that  hour. 

Our  holiday  festivities  were  over,  and  the  next  day  the 
Christmas  Guests  departed.  They  had  stepped  aside  awhile 
from  the  dusty  thoroughfares  on  which  they  were  accustomed  to 
pursue  their  several  avocations,  for  the  interchange  of  friendly 
sympathy  with  each  other,  and  the  offering  of  grateful  hearts  to 


286  EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR. 

Heaven,  and  now  they  were  returning,  cheered  and  strengthened 
to  their  allotted  work.     Eeader,  go  thou  and  do  likewise. 

"  Like  a  star 
That  maketh  not  haste, 
That  taketh  not  rest, 
Let  each  be  fulfilling 
His  God-given  hest." 


THE    END. 


ILLUSTRATED 

CHRISTMAS  AND   NEW  YEARS   NOVELTIES  FOR  1851, 
Published  by  D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY,  New- York. 

i. 

OUR  SAVIOUR 

WITH 

PROPHETS     AND    APOSTLES. 

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OUR  SAVIOUR.  REV.J.  M.  WAINWRIGHT,  D  D 
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ST.  MARK.     REV.  SAMUEL  II.  JOHNSON,  D.  D 
ST.  LUKE.     REV.  C.  A.  BARTOL. 
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WYATT,  D  D. 

ST.  PETER.     REV.  W.  HAGUE,  D   D. 
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D.  D 

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THE  WAR  BETWEEN  THE  UNITED  STATES  AND  MEXICO, 

EMBRACING 

PICTORIAL    DRAWINGS    OF    ALL    THE    PRINCIPAL    CONFLICTS. 
By  Carl  Nebel, 

Author  of  "  A  Picturesque  and  Archaeo  ogical  Voyage  in  Mexico  " 

With  a  Description  of  each  Battle,  by  GEOROK  WILKINS  KENDALL,  Author  of  "The  Texan  Santa  F6 
Expedition."     Folio  size.     Piates  beautifully  colored. 


2 

Also  Ncio  Editions  of  the  following 


One  e'egant  volume,  Imperial  Octavo  —  handsomely  bound,  $7.     Morocco,  $10. 

WOMEN   OF   THE   OLD   AND   NEW   TESTAMENT. 


A   SERIES    OF 


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FEMALE  CHARACTERS  OF  THE  OLD  AND  NEW  TESTAMENT. 
Edited  by  \V.  B.  Sprague,  D.  D. 

WITH  DESCRIPTIONS  BY  EMINENT  AMERICAN  CLERGYMEN. 

THE  FOUR   GOSPELS, 

ARRANGED  AS  A 

PRACTICAL    FAMILY    C  O  M  M  E  N  T  A  R  Y, 

FOR  EVERY  DAY  IN  THE  YEAR. 

By  the  Author  of  "  The  Peep  of  Day,"  <fcc. 

Edited,  with  an  Introductory  Preface,  by  STEPHEN  II.  TYNG,  D.  D.,  Rector  of  St.  George's  Churcn, 

New-  York. 

ILLUSTRATED   WITH    TWELVE   HIGHLY   FINISHED    STEEL   ENGRAVINGS. 

One  handsome  8vo.  vol.  of  over  500  pages.    Price,  $2  ;  gilt  edges,  $2  50  ;  im.  mor.,  $3  50  ;  mor.,  $4  50. 

SACRED   POETS   OF   ENGLAND   AND   AMERICA, 

FROM  THE  EARLIEST  TO  THE  PRESENT  TIME 
Edited  by  Rufus  W.  Gtriswold. 

ILLUSTRATED   WITH   TEN   FINE    STEEL    ENGRAVINGS. 

A  new  improved  edition.   1  vol.  8vo.   Cloth,  §2  50  ;  gilt  sides  and  edges,  §3  ;  im.  mor.,  $3  50  ;  mor.,  $4  50 

POEMS    BY    AMELIA. 

(MRS.  WELBY,  OF  KENTUCKY.) 

A  NEW  AND  ENLARGED  EDITION.    ILLUSTRATED  WITH  ORIGINAL  DESIGNS  BY  WEIR. 

One  vol.  square  8vo  ,  beautifully  printed.     Price,  cloth,  $2  50  ;  gilt  sides  and  edges,  $3  ;  imitation 

morocco,  $3  50  ;  morocco,  $4  50. 

THE   COMPLETE 

POETICAL  WORKS  OF  F1TZ-GREENE  HALLECK. 

Now  first  collected.     Illustrated  with  fine  Steel  Engravings,  from  paintings  by  American  Artists.     A  new 
edition.   One  vol.,  8vo.  Price,  $2  50  ;  cloth,  gilt  leaves,  $3  ;  im.  morocco,  $3  50  ;  Turkey  mor.,  $5. 


JJWIBH  HUE 


nr,  €jjt  Imlihtjs  nt 

By  Susiiii  Pindar, 

Author  of  "Fireside  Fairies,"  &c.     One  volume,  ]6tno.    Various  bindings. 

Uniform  Series,  for  Boys  and  Girls.     Comprising 

I.     CHRISTMAS  STORIES,  for  Good  Children.     By  AMEREL.     Illustrated.     16mo. 
II.     WINTER  HOLIDAYS.     A  Story  for  Children.    By  AMEHKL.     Illustrated.     16mo. 

III.  THE  SUMMER  HOLIDAYS.     A  Story  for  Children.     By  AMEREL.     Illustrated.     16mo. 

IV.  GEORGE'S  ADVENTURES  IN  THE  COUNTRY.     By  AMEREL.     Illustrated.     ]6mo. 
V.    THE  CHILD'S  STORY  BOOK.     A  Holiday  Gift.     By  AMEREL.     Illustrated      16mo. 

VI.    THE  LITTLE  GIFT  BOOK,  for  Good  Boys  'and  Girls.    By  AMEREL.    Illustrated.    ICmo. 


